


State of Desire

by Yuki1014o



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: "happy ending" in quotation marks cause the end goal is AUTHUNITY, Commie's a mother hen change my mind, Feelings Realization, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nazi ideology, Pining, Repression, Suicidal Thoughts, Timeline What Timeline, blanket warning for everything that includes, eventual happy ending cause I'm a bleeding heart, happy ending for the romance not the world, some worldbuilding and comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:15:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28115256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: In which Commie is a leftist, a Slav, aman, and Nazi is (not!) in denial.///OR: Nazi has uncountable issues and exactly no good coping mechanisms, Commie is increasing levels of concerned, and everyone else is varying degrees of (un)helpful.
Relationships: Communist/White Identitarian | Nazi (Centricide), authunity
Comments: 163
Kudos: 139





	1. a lot of salt, but what do you expect

**Author's Note:**

> Full fic disclaimer: I'm not a historian, I'm not deep in politics, I have no qualifications, and there will almost definitely be all kinds of inaccuracies through this whole thing. Both ones that I can and can't recognize. And, of course, I endorse none of this.
> 
> Honestly I have no clue what the fuck I'm doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE READ:** I didn't put everything in the tags, because they would've got too cluttered, but each chapter is gonna have it's own cw. this fic eventually also includes non-explicit and mostly implied self-experimentation, general references to Nazi Germany, and a host of other shit.  
> Ancom is going to be consistently misgendered. It's particularly bad in chapter 1. Nazi doesn't respect quem :(
> 
> Obligatory 'I'm not a Nazi' and definitely don't mean to romanticize that ideology. I'm a progressive/moderate progressive lol. Anyhow.

It shouldn't be surprising, Nazi muses, watching Ancap and Commie kick each other under the table, that he's the most mature person in this mockery of a household. Still, he expected more of Commie than to waste his time with...this.

Really, it would be much better if Commie focused all that blood-sharp attention on _him_. At least their discussion turn out more productive than this utterly _foolish_ squabbling. He takes a sip of water. They're disturbing dinner. Dinner isn't the place for this.

It's fucking _irritating_. The only way it could get more irritating is if Ancom were here. Fortunately, he's out somewhere with his degenerate friends. Probably crashing on a bench somewhere. What a lazy piece of shit.

"You have less values than _Nazi!_ " Commie glares.

Nazi covers his wince with a twitch. He _does_ have values. Commie made dandelion salad ( _there are resources everywhere! You don't have the right to be picky!_ )It leaves bitter aftertaste. Disgusting. He doesn't care what Commie thinks of him.

Ancap huffs. "Lies and slander! I should sue you for defamation. I value personal liberty and the right to ownership! Nazi _genuinely_ has no values."

Oh _fuck this_. Nazi isn't going to allow himself to be insulted, even if it _does_ mean ruining a meal. "I value white people," he snaps, "a good Aryan should be decent to others of his race—anyone else is inconsequential."

Commie looks supremely unimpressed. "All those political enemies were white, да? At least keep internal consistency, Nazi."

That hypocrite! Joke about gulags when they're alone, and all of a sudden start virtue signaling when in _liberal_ company? At least Ancom isn't here. It's so much worse when Ancom is here. "I _am_ consistent," Nazi hisses, "it's just that supposed 'morals' and 'principals' have no place on the path towards utopia."

"See!" Ancap points his fork. "Listen to him! You know, he made part of the basement into a _gas chamber_ last night? On my private property! Without even _paying_ me first!"

"It's for the greater good!" Nazi defends. He should've paid the extra for a non-disclosure agreement. "Besides, we're committing genocide anyway! And I paid you this morning!"

"You should've paid _first!_ And, uh, killing minorities is bad. Do you know how profitable they are? Commie, come on, you don't agree with _him_ , do you?"

Commie's face does something complicated. "...Private property is evil," he eventually says, "but gas chambers are _also_ evil."

Nazi sneers. "Like you didn't have concentration camps too! And gas chambers!"

Commie flares, colors rippling like fire ember. "The labor camps were _completely different_. Those filthy kulaks deserved it. And I _never_ used gas chambers!"

Ah. There it is. That intensity, directed at him. That's what Nazi was missing. Commie's attention has been split between arguing with Ancap and straight up _coddling_ Ancom lately. And—it's not like Nazi and Commie spend much time together, not really, but when they _are_ in the same proximity, their attention always gravitates toward each other. _Always_. They'll fight, they'll ally, they'll do _something_. Except—

Except in this house there isn't just him and Commie, there's also Ancom (who Commie goes all _soft_ for) and Ancap (who Commie despises more than possibly anyone else.) So.

Nazi smooths the hem of his shirt. Raises a brow. " _Really?_ Don't act like some softie. Everyone knows about the gas vans. You know their necessity."

"That was a totally different situation!" Commie's colors flare again, shadows darkening into a deep-crimson. Blood-red. Lovely. "You can't compare the two! Honesty, it's offending—"

" _Oh no_ ," Nazi says, "you're _offended_. I'm so scared."

Commie's face hardens. "Nazi, I do hope you understand that—"

The door swings open. Cold air from outside. Faint city smell—weed and cigarette. Disgusting. Ancom is back. Does that degenerate ever wash up? Have any self-respect at all? A man should keep himself straight, masculine, and orderly.

"Yo," Ancom says, very obviously trying to ignore Nazi's cold glare. "I'm back. Planned to stay the night but eh. Didn't really feel like it I guess. Anything left?"

Commie's attention immediately shifts, and his colors simmer down to softer shades. _Fuck_. Fucking Ancom. "There's dandelion salad and I made _borscht_ , don't worry it's, uh, vegan."

Nazi is a naturally cold person. Ideology. Whatever. His skin is only a bit warmer than fresh ice, and laying his hand on a warm window will cause instant fog. So, really, there's not much colder he _can_ get. But now, with Commie's intensity tempering down, and his attention shifted, Nazi feels distinctly _cold_.

...Disgusting.

-

Night. The next day. Nine thirty six PM exactly. Normally, there would be dinner cooking, but Commie apparently has a 'reading theory' appointment, and only Commie cooks. Ancap just orders himself private dinner, Ancom either doesn't know how to or is to lazy to cook anything, and Nazi—he knows in theory, but that's woman's work. He keeps his space tidy and cleans his clothes because there's no one else to do it, but cooking is non-essential. He won't lower himself like that.

So they're ordering pizza. Or, they _would_ be, if Ancom would stop begin such a fucking soyboy.

"This is literally _so easy_ ," Ancom hisses, like some sort of overgrown cat, "it literally isn't hard. We just get the vegan one. It's twenty fucking twenty, it doesn't even taste that different. Or half of it could be vegan, and the other half could be whatever. It isn't that hard to just _compromise_."

" _Just compromise_ ," Nazi mocks, making his voice all high-pitched. "That's not how this works. You think everyone can just _get along_. You sound like a fucking centrist. Either someone bends, or they break, or you separatethem and neither has to interact ever again."

Some unions just _can't happen_. Some things can't be negotiated. Nazi has known this ever since he gave up on running messages between his parents. Acting diplomat from beneath the table, trying to take control because the house was a mess and there was glass on the floor and the yelling was too loud.

There's no such thing as an eternal conflict. One side will always rise superior. The other will either bend or break. There is no in between. His mother (back when he was human—properly human, not merged with Authoritarian Right) didn't bend, she broke. They both broke into each other. In Nazi's ideal society, both his parents would be dead.

Now the _Jews_ —they won't bend, so they have to _break_.

"Oh _fuck you_ ," Ancom says, "we're ordering pizza. Stop advocating an ethnostate. Racist."

Ancap clears his throat, taps his shoes against the linoleum. "Decide already. I'm trying to order here. It's very rude to waste an employee's time, you know."

"Oh yeah," Ancom says, "because obviously you care about the working class _sooo_ much. I'm trying. Nazi's being a bitch."

"Whatever. Decide more quickly. Time is money, and my time is _very_ expensive. I'm only ordering a pizza for you two because Commie is going to bother me if I don't."

"Oh well _excuse me_ ," Nazi says, "I'm not contaminating a perfectly good meal with some lab-made leftist shit that's going to turn me gay or make me a fucking tranny. I mean, just _look_ at what it did to _him!_ "

Ancom twitches. Ancap sighs. "First, I'm _not a guy. S_ econd, fuck you. That's conspiracy theory bullshit, and if you ever looked at a science book in your _life—_ "

"You're disgusting." Nazi itches for the gun on his hip. "Even if you weren't an Ancom I'd kill you on the basis of being clearly mentally ill."

Ancom punches him. Nazi kicks back. A bite. A scratch. At some point Ancom brings on the bat. Nazi wants to shoot his gun but—Commie wouldn't like that, he thinks. Commie would get really fucking angry, or worse, _sad_ , or might start avoiding Nazi altogether.

Something breaks. Smash. Crash. Another crack. Glass on the floor. Fuck. Stomping footsteps. Nazi freezes on instinct. (There's still glass on the floor! He's made a mess and hasn't cleaned it up yet! Father—) Ancom gets another punch in. Then—stops. Silence.

Commie's colors are smoldering, and his glare could burn nations. Thin lips. He's angry—disappointed? Not fair. "Is there _reason_ ," he says, voice a low rumble, "that you two are _fighting?_ We are currently allies, _unity_ , infighting cannot be tolerated. Ancom—whatever, you can't follow rules for your life, and Nazi probably deserved it...but _Nazi_. Have some self control."

Not _fucking_ fair.

"They're squabbling over pizza." Ancap steps carefully back into the room. "Ancom wanted part of it vegan, Nazi didn't."

" _Ugh_." Commie's nose wrinkles. "Consumerism. Come on, Ancom, you shouldn't buy from soulless corporations anyway. They have no health standards. I'll make you something."

Nazi lifts himself onto his feet. Glass in his hands. They're bleeding. Pricks of pain. He should deal with that. Glass is a bitch when it gets lodged in too far.

Ancom frowns. "I thought you were busy reading theory?"

"да. _Was_. But I can't read like this."

"Oh. I guess. Sorry. Can I help?"

"...Err," Commie eyes the mess, "how about you deal with that?"

That's a sugarcoated way of saying he doesn't want Ancom 'helping' with dinner. What a control freak. Although, Nazi wouldn't want it either.

Ancom's expression twists. "Sure."

Something sharp and possessive crawls through Nazi's veins. Does Commie not think he's capable of something so simple? Nazi can clean up a _mess_. Ancom will probably fuck it up somehow anyway.

"I'll do it," Nazi says, "Ancom can't clean to save his life."

" _Qui,_ " Commie corrects, tapping his boot against the linoleum. "Although. Uh. Point. Ancom, how about you just...put away dishes, or something. I washed some earlier. Come on."

Ancom leaves. So does Commie. Chopping sounds start to come from the kitchen. Commie laughs. Nazi tries to evaluate how many pieces off glass got embedded into his skin, but can't quite focus.

Ancap clears his throat. "So...order? It's five hundred dollars for everything you broke, by the way. Pay me later."

 _Fuck you_ , Nazi thinks. Corporations have no place ordering the state around. His stomach growls. "Flammkuchen. Now get out, you're in the way."

Ancap shrugs and leaves. Nazi cleans up the glass—pick up the largest pieces, sweep up the rest, then vacuum the dust. Straightens the furniture. Gets everything unsightly out and away.

The pizza comes. He spends dinner picking glass out of his hands. It got deep, so he has to blindly dig around with a tweezer. He doesn't cry. Whatever Commie is making in the kitchen smells good. Probably some stupid Slavic shit. The pizza is mediocre.

He listens to the leftists joking in the kitchen. Why do they sound so happy? This is all Ancom's fault. And Ancap's. And Commie's. Ancom is a race traitor, Ancap sells out culture, and Commie is a fucking Slav. Barely even human, really.

Why the fuck does he even care? Nazi grits his teeth. His hand hurts. He eats another slice of pizza. And another. Feels nauseous. Eats another. Listens to Commie singing the Soviet anthem in the other room. Listens to Ancom start bitching about ultra-nationalism or whatever. Commie stops singing and starts trying to explain common sense. No more singing.

Bites his cheek. Nazi doesn't even _like_ the Soviet anthem.

Irritating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to all the authunity writers!! I dunno if I would've made this without you. Also what the fuck is up with Centricide's tagging system it's an actual headache. Uhhh.  
> Hope you enjoyed? if you did, please don't hesitate to leave a comment (or constructive criticism!) because validation is nice. thanks for taking the time to stop in :>


	2. 'look good in red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pizza gives him food poisoning, because of course it does. Commie is concerned--why would he be concerned?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: this is pretty tame, actually. A bit of violence, non-consensual being helped, invasion of privacy, and also food poisoning +all the usual stuff, it's nazi

The pizza gives him food poisoning, because of course it does. Nazi wakes up at six AM needing to throw up and feeling nauseous to a dizzying degree. He doesn’t go throw up. He doesn't need to. He won’t. What if someone saw him? Instead, he gets up, gets dressed, curls into a ball at the foot of his bed, and _doesn’t cry_.

Why does he even get sick anyway? He’s an _ideology,_ he’s _Authoritarian Right_. He doesn't even exist in the same dimension as normal humans anymore. He shouldn't get sick. Flesh wounds are a different matter—Nazi has a physical body, of course it can be harmed. His hands are already completely healed over. No hint of a scar. It takes much, much more than that to scar an ideology. No—the only scars he has are historical or from before he possessed this body.

Err...not _possessed_ , exactly. Merged with. Fused with. He is _Authoritarian Right_ , but he is also _James Reichmanger_. In order to influence the material realm ideologies require a host of sorts. They require an anchor point. Without one, they’re formless clouds of disorganized ideas.

So here he is. Crumpled into a ball in fucking _agony_ , because of some shitty pizza. This is Ancap’s fault. Nazi should kill whoever made that pizza. For now though, he has to wait this out. His body will sort it out...soon, probably. His body is superior. A perfect Aryan specimen.

Someone knocks on his door.

Oh. No no no, _no one_ can see him like this.

“Fuck off,” he shouts. His voice comes horse and a little raspy, and Nazi wants desperately to bite back to words. He’s always so _careful_ with his image. Smooth voice, clean clothes, perfect presentation—anything less than that is not only shameful, but makes it infinitely harder to grow his own influence.

A pause.

“...Nazi? Alright? You sound weird.”

Ah shit. That’s Commie. Something cold and fearful twists through his stomach, and Nazi bites his cheek. Ancap could be paid for silence, Ancom...would be easy enough to kick out, probably. But _Commie—_

Nazi clears his throat. “I’m fine. Don’t come in.”

The door immediately opens. Fuck. _Fuck_. What did he expect? Nazi scrambles to his feet. Instant vertigo. The room swirls.

“Oh,” Commie says, pauses. He isn’t looking at Nazi, he’s looking at the room. “I was never here before. It’s freezing and...neat.”

“Obviously,” Nazi says, because of _course_. Blue carpet. Blue blankets. White desk—completely clear of anything non-gaming related. A sleek TV. Shelves of books—color coded. Everything is color coded. Everything has it’s own spot and is with it’s own category. Just like it should be. Does Commie like it? “I’m not a slob.”

“...Right,” Commie says, “needs more red. And less swastikas. Otherwise...nice.” Nazi feels himself glow, colors shifting into something lighter, more pastel. Commie likes it! Good. Someone who understands the need for organization. “Why didn’t you want—” stops.

Nazi stiffens. Commie is finally looking at him. His clothes are all rumbled, and his hair isn’t brushed, and he hasn’t washed up, and he’s _trying_ to hold himself steady and straight, but—

“Oго! That’s very bad, да?”

Nazi doesn’t understand half of that. Commie’s expression is...worried? Maybe. Not Exactly. Surprised?

“I’m fine.”

“Lies.” Commie closes the door, starts to come forward—Nazi goes tense as a pulled bowstring. Where is his gun? He can’t—can’t—Commie stops. “You aren’t fine. How?”

“I’m _fine_.”

“You look like you’re going to fall over.”

He feels like it, too. Fucking Hell. What was _in_ that Pizza? Where was it _made?_ “Go away.”

Commie taps his boot against the floor. Face hard. His colors are a steady shade of crimson. “I do not abandon comrades.”

What?

“We aren’t comrades.”

A pause. Something flicks across Commie's face, so quick he can’t read it. “We’re allied, so comrades.”

Comrades. _Comrades_. Last night, Commie went and made Ancom a full dinner while Nazi picked glass out of his hands. What a joke. His throat is sore, and his eyes hurt. “Get _out_.”

“No.”

Where is his gun? Bedside table, right. Only a few inches away. “I’ll make you.”

“As if. Did we forget last time? Get in bed and drink water. How are you sick with?”

“It’s just food poisoning,” Nazi says. “It isn’t a big deal. Leave.”

“From pizza?” Commie asks. A pause. Nazi nods. “Damn pigs! You cannot trust corporation. Have you thrown up?”

Nazi crosses his arms. “No. My body will handle it.”

“That’s stupid. Lets go.”

“I’m not leaving this room. Don’t order me around, _Slav_. It isn’t your place.”

Nazi will be damned if Ancom sees him like this. And he’s pretty sure Ancap and Commie have set up video surveillance through all the halls. He will _not_ let himself be like this on video.

A beat. Commie’s expression twists. Lips going thin. He starts stepping forward, and Nazi is already pressed against the wall. There isn’t anywhere to go. “You will get in bed. I will take care of you. We cannot kill centrists without you in health.”

“Get _out_ ,” Nazi hisses.

Commie takes another step forward. Up close, Nazi can feel the waves of heat that radiate off the other ideology. He’s the largest of them all, with the frame of a bear, and Nazi is tall, but Commie towers over him by a whole head. Nazi grabs for the gun. Commie catches his arm in an iron grip.

Commie’s hand _burns_. Almost literally. His skin is like one of those heated rocks they give at the dentist. Against Nazi’s icy wrist, it feels like a brand.

Constraining. Shackling. Dirty. Disgusting. Unbreakable. Nazi feels like a child again. Small and weak. Unable to do anything. Have to get _out—!_

“Get your filthy Slavic hands off and _leave_ _!_ ”

An unimpressed look. “Ага, щаз. No.”

Bend or break. Someone has to give, and it won’t be him. Nazi kicks Commie. Red flare. Commie knocks him down to the floor. Nazi bites. The grip is released. There’s a weapon stash below the bed. Guns and knives. From the floor, Nazi can reach them. The handle is smooth and familiar. More red—a gash, right across Commie’s cheek.

“Cука блять!”

Commie’s comes down, knees settling on either side of his torso. Commie captures both his wrists easily and holds them above his head. _Fuck_. How pathetic. Nazi usually does so much better than this.

Commie’s glare is smoldering. The gash is already starting to heal.

“ _Give up_. Don’t make me hurt you. I don’t want to, but I will.”

Commie is on top of him. He’s on the floor. Warm hands. Warm in general. _Feverish_. Beneath the red tint, Commie has dark brown hair—almost black, and skin just a shade darker than fair. A sharp jawline. Commie’s eyes are the deep gold of sunlit wheat fields, and when Nazi looks closer, he can see the glint of red stars.

Not perfect form, but something close, something enticing.

He breathes in, breathes out. Commie smells like earth and blood and gunpowder. Something hot and shameful crawls across Nazi’s skin. Anger. It’s anger. It has to be anger. There’s a Slav pinning him down. An _untermensch_. Disgusting.

“Get off.” His tone comes flat.

Commie’s lips thin. He shoves the knives away. “Stay still.”

Bend or break—beneath Commie’s red inferno, Nazi bends.

“Sure.” Commie gets off. Nazi stays still. His head throbs. “I still don’t need your help, or whatever. Stop. Get out. I’m not your precious Ancom that’ll just accept your babying. I genuinely don’t want you here.”

A beat. There’s still blood on the Slav’s face.

“...”

“I don’t want an untermensch in my room. If you stay, I _will_ find a way to shoot you.”

“...I’ll get water.”

Commie goes. The door slams shut. Fuck. Nazi breathes in, breathes out. It still smells like earth. Cold. It’s cold, now. Nazi’s room doesn’t have any heaters, nor does he really find them necessary. _Tick-tick-tick_. Nazi glances at the clock. Eight forty three.

He wonders what Commie’s eyes looked like back when he was human. Brown? Black? Hazel? Does it matter? It doesn't matter. It shouldn’t matter.

The door opens again at eight forty five. Commie puts the water bottle on the bedside table. Nazi resolutely doesn’t look at him, and keeps his gaze glued to the clock. A pause. Commie’s footsteps sound toward the door. Another pause.

“Trembling on the floor does nothing, go to bed and stay there. I’ll make up some excuse for you, so no one comes to see what you’re doing. Then we can forget about this, да?”

Nazi thinks about that. Thinks about Commie just—leaving, and not coming back. Thinks about pretending none of this happened. Isn’t even sure what ‘this’ is.

“Why do you even _care?_ ”

“...It doesn’t matter,” Commie says, weird note to his tone. What? “See you.”

The door opens. Nazi finally look over. He’s leaving. It feels colder. Nazi bites his cheek. Iron. Commie sighs, so quiet that Nazi almost thinks he’s imagined it. And—

“Wait!”

Commie stills. Turns around. His fingers twitch. “How?”

 _Stay_ , Nazi thinks, and viciously bites the words back. “...There’s gaming equipment in the drawer. Beneath the monitor. Not in the desk. Can you...get two controllers?”

“Oh,” Commie says. “I—sure. Okay. But drink your water. And get blanket from bed.”

“I already made the bed.” He doesn’t want to mess it up.

A sigh. “Picky. I’ll get one of my blankets then. One moment.”

Commie leaves. Nazi looks at the clock. Eight forty eight. _Tic-tic-tic_. He counts seconds.

Commie comes back at eight fifty one, big bundle of red fabric in his arms. He walks over, and wraps the blanket right around Nazi’s shoulders.

“There. Warm, да?”

The Slav’s hands haven’t left his shoulders, and the blanket is warm, but personally, Nazi thinks Commie is warmer. Like a brand.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Commie’s hands leave. He keeps staring at him. Nazi’s skin crawls with something hot and shameful. Does he look _that_ disheveled?

“... _What?_ ”

“Hm?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Oh,” Commie says, and that weird note is back. Something soft and gentle. Something Nazi can’t pin. “Nothing. You look good in red.”

Nazi can feel the ghost of Commie’s hand on his shoulders, on his wrist. Like a branding. Like a claim. Disgusting. He thinks of the way the Slav’s touches linger, and the strange notes. Thinks about how Commie has no reason to be doing any of this. No reason to care. Why does he _care?_

...It can’t be some homosexual thing—can it? No. No. That’s a stupid idea. Commie is, in most ways, the perfect model of a man. He’s a pillar of masculinity. So, so close to flawless. There’s no way he could be a fag. What a stupid notion.

Nazi huffs. “You think everything looks good in red.”

“True, true.”

Really, how _ridiculous_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every scene with commie and Nazi turns out weirdly wholesome and idk how  
> can u see that pining,,,haha. Nazi hasn't realized yet but he's in for a ride.  
> Per usual, constructive criticism is welcome and comments genuinely give me life, so


	3. alcohol is bad for thinking straight. literally.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >"Ooh!" Ancap snaps his fingers, abruptly, suddenly. Laughs a little. "I see. That makes sense, I should've realized earlier. Why didn't you just say so?"
> 
> in which Ancap is stunningly helpful. except not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: drinking +all the normal warnings. it's nazi.

Tap tap tap. He recovered yesterday. As promised, Commie covered for him, and no one has so much as questioned where he was. Now Commie and Ancom are out together. Doing something. Whatever. Nazi doesn't really care. He _doesn't_.

Ancap tsks. "Quiet down. I'm trying to concentrate on scamming someone. Don't you have better things to do than be anxious in the living room?"

Nazi stills. Runs his tongue over his teeth instead. Thinks of Commie's hands around his wrists, burning like a brand. "I'm not anxious, just irritated."

"You? _Irritated?_ Unbelievable _._ Tell me something I don't already know."

He starts cleaning his gun. It isn't actually dirty, but there's no such thing as too clean. "Commie is annoying. Absolutely irritating. Endlessly infuriating."

Ancap pauses. Looks up from his laptop. "...Yes. I believe that's already been firmly established. What'd he do this time?"

Rightest unity. It's not something Ancap and him have ever been able to achieve (or even really _want_ to reach) but they're united in their like of complaining about Commie. It's one of the only things Ancap will participate in without demanding compensation.

Nazi tucks his gun away. Taps his nails on the table. Stills. "It's like he doesn't even care about the cause!" He finally bursts. "Honestly, what is he even _doing?_ He's wasting time! Getting caught up in petty bullshit! You know where he is today? Spending time with _Ancom!_ "

Ancap hums. Types something into his keyboard. "Yep. A meetup discussing discrimination in the workplace. Probably gonna pull some bullshit about capitalism perpetuating racism. What idiots."

"Exactly!" Nazi says. "Ancom keeps dragging him everywhere! It's compromising his efficiency! You know the other night with the pizza? Commie straight up _stopped reading theory_ just to make Ancom dinner! And the degenerate wasn't even appropriately grateful!"

"...Uh huh," says Ancap.

"Ancom is making him act all _soft!_ Commie could be spending time debating with me yet he's out doing _whatever_ with the fag! Isn't he all about equality and equal distribution? Yet he so _blatantly_ favors Ancom whenever we fight!"

Ancap pauses. If he weren't wearing sunglasses he'd probably be squinting. "Yesterday you both ganged up on Ancom about drugs, and didn't he literally spend all day with you when you were sick?"

"Fuck you I wasn't sick." Nazi says, then, "Wait, how do you know?"

Ancap shrugs. "I know the company. You have to pay extra if you want a guarantee of no food poisoning, and obviously I didn't pay that for you. So it wasn't hard to figure out."

...And this is the problem with international corporations. No one can hold them accountable. Goddamn Jews. Nazi wouldn't stand for this in his own state.

"...Right. Anyway. That was one time, Commie hardly ever does anything productive with me. Ancom is infecting him with liberal agenda. It's—"

Ancap holds up a hand. "Wait. Look, I'm all for complaining about Commie, but you aren't really complaining about Commie, are you?"

"What? Of course I am."

A snort. "You're just whining about Ancom and Commie paying more attention to quem. Why does it even matter?"

"Of course it matters! And I'm not _whining_. Ancom keeps interrupting whenever Commie sings, and is in general just an annoying little—"

" _Ooh!_ " Ancap snaps his fingers, abruptly, suddenly. Laughs a little. "I see. That makes sense, I should've realized earlier. Why didn't you just say so?"

Nazi squints. "What?"

"Hmm?" Ancap raises his brows over the sunglasses. "You... _oh_. It just gets better! Don't tell me you haven't realized."

" _What?_ "

Ancap move the laptop, leans back on the couch, hands crossed in his lap. there's a smirk on his face. "Pay me and I'll tell you. It's fifty percent off for your first purchase! Around, hmm, a fiftieth of a bitcoin."

Nazi twitches. "I don't use bitcoin."

Ancap sighs dramatically. "Five hundred USD, then. Honestly, Nazi, you live in the past."

Another twitch. Ancap smirks at him. Nazi glares. Ridiculous. This is all ridiculous.

"...I'll pay you later."

"Wonderful!" Ancap claps his hands once. "You're jealous! You like Commie! Nazi, you're gay."

What?

"What," his tone is flat. The gun of his hip weighs heavy and present. "If that's your sad attempt at a joke, it isn't funny."

"Oh _dear_ ," Ancap laughs. "Tell me, what do you think of Commie? When you think about him up close, what do you feel?"

"Commie's a respectable man," Nazi says, "he's intelligent and understands the need for strong government. We aren't even friends. I'm not a degenerate fag."

"Sure," Ancap says, "and you wouldn't want him to kiss you? Hold you? Choke you?"

"I—" he thinks of Commie straddling him to the floor, hands around his wrists, pinning him down. A touch so hot it almost burned. Eyes the color of sunlit wheat. Something hot and shameful crawls over his face, and it isn't anger. "I'm _not_." he says, but it's quiet and uncertain.

Nazi is a perfect Aryan specimen. He _can't_ be. He—

"I have to go."

"Make sure to pay me! Five hundred USD! Don't forget!"

-

Nazi stares at his reflection in the mirror. Beneath the bathroom's white light, he looks positively gorgeous. His hair is clean and combed, cut to length and platinum blonde. His eyes are ice-blue. His skin is fair. Sharp jawline. His build is also good—tall and muscular. An elegant kind of power.

He can't be homosexual. It's genuinely impossible. He—Nazi remembers sorting through potential hosts and eventually gravitating towards James Reichmanger. Remembers the world snapping into focus upon _finally_ acquiring an anchor point. Remembers simultaneously the relief of being grounded and the honor of being chosen. He...

He _can't be_. He isn't...Commie is just...

Nazi scratches at his wrists. Wonders how that iron grip would feel around his neck.

There's a difference between having gay thoughts and being gay, Nazi reasons. It's just...human nature, to be curious. Humanity is drawn to the morbid and unnatural. He's just—it's because of Ancom. Ancom has been exposing him to all sorts of degeneracy, and the corruption has started to claw at Nazi's iron defenses.

When Nazi looks closer, everything isn't actually in order.

Nazi smooth the wrinkles of his sleek black shirt. Combs his hair again. Combs again. Cleans his nails. Washes his hands. Washes his hands with soap. Fixes his hat. Clips his nails to even length. Straightens. Fixes his posture.

There. Perfect. Presentable. Would Commie think so, too?'

...Fuck. He needs a drink. Nazi breathes in, out. Gunpowder and peppermint. Okay.

He goes back downstairs.

"Gotten over yourself?" Ancap calls at him. He flips a bird and look into the alcohol cabinet.

It's mostly full of vodka. Nazi wrinkles his nose. Tasteless. He digs out a bottle of red wine. Thinks, for a moment, of drinking straight from the bottle, then cringes. Disgusting. He's only going to have one cup. Barely enough to get tipsy. He's not some kind of lay-about.

One cup. Just one. He fills it almost to the top. Sits comfortably at the kitchen table. Takes a sip. Another. Downs the rest. Feels the rush—tingles in his fingertips, a light tightening in his chest, before everything starts to feel loose. He's a light weight. Commie would make fun of him. Dammit.

His head hurts. Half the bottle is gone. When did that happen? He isn't a fag. He _isn't_. Fuck Ancap. Ancap is polluted by the liberal-Jewish agenda. The world is trying to trick him into thinking he's gay so that he becomes a weak soyboy. Homosexuality is why the Greeks fell.

Nazi slumps onto the table and pours himself another glass. He won't drink from the bottle. He _won't_.

 _Slam!_ Nazi startles. The door opened in the other room. He feels drunk. He can hear Ancom and Commie laughing. _Fuck_.

This is all Ancom's fault.

"See you, Tankie! You sure did show those fascists!"

"Those were actually capitalist boomers," Commie says, "but sure. Here, take this. Das Kapital. Please read it this time. Class struggle is more important than so called 'identity struggle.'"

"Class struggle is outdated!"

"...Read your theory, Anarkiddy." A pause. "Kulak? Is Nazi in kitchen?"

Nazi attempts to make himself look halfway presentable. He straightens up, kind of. Smooths some rumples in his shirt. Ignores the swirling of his vision. Commie's heavy footsteps approach the kitchen and he enters in a swathe of red.

The Slav stops, stares. Nazi glares. Commie is going to make fun of him. Call him a light weight. Or stupid. Or a degenerate. Or a lazy layabout.

He tries to cross his arms, but only succeeds in knocking his head against something, _somehow_. " _What?_ "

"You shouldn't drink," Commie says, "It's bad. Drunks cannot achieve utopia. Alcohol keeps working class miserable, uncoordinated, and subdued. It is tool of filthy bourgeoisie."

 _Seriously?_ Nazi chokes out a laugh. "I don't want to hear that from _you_."

Commie sniffs. "In utopia, everyone is happy productive member of society, да? Bolsheviks were strictly prohibitionist. I respect Stalin much, but repealing dry law was not good."

"...You drink vodka by the bottle. Like a degenerate."

"We do not talk about that," Commie says, lifts his head. From this angle, Nazi can see the entirety of his throat. Red-tinted pale skin. What would it taste like? Earth? It doesn't matter. That's immoral. "You're light weight—" Nazi winces, but Commie...doesn't sound like he's making fun of him, probably. "More than that and you'll probably be sick."

"Fuck you," Nazi mutters, and drinks down the rest of his cup. His head hurt. Fucking shameful. The whole thing is disgusting. Can't Commie just go away? "Go away. I don't want you here."

That's a lie. He wants Commie close, close enough to touch. He wants hands around his wrists, wants that smell of earth and gunpowder with a touch of iron. Wants—

Wants to get his _head straight._ He isn't thinking right. He just need to—to—to reaffirm his principals. Not only is Commie a man, he's also a Slav. _Untermensch_.

Commie sighs. "Again, Nazi? Stop drinking or I'll make you."

This is all Commie's fault in the first place. _I hate you_ , he thinks, _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you._ "No."

Commie rolls his eyes. Wheat-gold with red stars. Strides over. His heat is palpable. Nazi tries to jerk away. It's useless. He hits his head on the table, somehow. Nazi struggles, but he's thoroughly drunk, and Commit is large and his grip is firm, and it's shamefully easy for him to sling Nazi onto his back.

"I hate you," Nazi says, and his voice is wobbling. He lets his face fall into the crook of the Slav's neck. This close, Nazi can make out a faint smell of pine. How would he taste? "I hate you so much."

Commie pauses. "...I know."

They're silent up the stairs and down the hall. Nazi has never been carried before, even as a baby. His mother didn't take him out of the house. Too troublesome. (He _hates_ her. _Hates hates hates—!_ ) Commie keeps a steady gait, is solid and warm beneath him, and Nazi finds himself losing the will to resist at all.

"Why do you even care," Nazi mutters, again, because he never actually got a real answer last time. "No one cares. My _parents_ didn't care."

Commie goes tense, for just a half-moment. Ideologies, by common rule, don't talk about their human lives. "Nazi, you're drunk."

He is drunk. That's why he's saying any of this. And it's all the Slav's fault. "Mother was a bitch. Druggie. She saw guys on the side like some kind of whore and always played the victim card. And she never wanted me."

"You're going to regret this in morning."

Yeah, probably.

"I almost hate her more than Father," Nazi says, "fuck him. I hate him. Layabout drunk. Work-shy. Pathetic excuse for a man. They're the absolute epitome of western rot. Not like you. You're..."

 _Almost perfect_ , Nazi thinks, but just barely manages not to say. Fucking alcohol. It makes his tongue loose.

"Did you just compliment?"

Commie opens the door to his room. Closes it. Nazi likes the blue-white of his room, likes the clean sterility of it, but something about the cold colors make it oppressive. Nazi shivers.

"Yes. That was a fucking compliment. And I won't repeat it. I still hate you, _Slav_."

"да. I know. Hard to forget." Commie sits down on his bed and shrugs Nazi off. His vision spins when he hits the mattress. "Xорошо провести время. See you."

 _Wait_ , Nazi thinks, _wait wait wait_.

He reaches out, grasping at Commie's coat. The Slav stops, turns around. "How?"

Honestly, he doesn't really know either. He has no fucking idea. He can't even think well. His thoughts are swirling around in a mushy mess. What the hell is he doing? In lieu of answer, Nazi takes Commie's hand and pulls.

"Nazi," Commie says, pulling lightly away. Nazi tightens his grip and brings Commie's hand up to his face. It's large and warm.

What is he _doing?_

(Degeneracy!)

Commie's lips are thin. " _Nazi_."

What Nazi needs to is reaffirm his morals, strengthen his defenses against this liberal rot. Not—not whatever this is. Slavs are sub-human. Absolutely inferior. Barely more than animals, barely fit for slavery. Non-people.

But when Nazi tries to think of Commie as an _it_ , the label burns into ash beneath the heat of Commie's palm.

Nazi, thoughts muddied by liberal rot and alcohol, brings Commie's fingers up to his lips and—kisses them. He _kisses_ them. He kissed a guy's hand. He just—he—

Commie jerks back, practically tearing himself out of Nazi's grip. A series of expression flash over his face, so fast they're unidentifiable. The Slav's features settle into something hard and blank. "You're drunk."

Nazi wants to cry. He fucking laughs. A hysterical kind of laugh that rocks his shoulders and tightens his chest to an unbearable degree. Commie must be so fucking disgusted. Commie is straight—a perfect male. And Nazi just _kissed him_ like some kind of _degenerate fag_. He wants to fucking die.

This is all Commie's fault.

"Get out," he manages. "Just get out."

Commie leaves wordlessly, and Nazi does _not_ cry. He watches the door click closed, red disappearing, warmth dissipating, and digs his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. _I hate you,_ he thinks, _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you_. Except he doesn't know who 'you' is. He hates Commie. He hates himself. He just—just—

Nazi runs his tongue over his lips. They taste faintly like pine and iron. Disgusting. He just—

Blood and Soil. _Blut und Boden_. Blood. The Body National. The perfect, cultivated race, leading everyone to a brighter future. Nazi belongs in front, at the spearhead; he is the perfect specimen. The most fit. He _cannot_ be a homosexual. There's nothing wrong with him.

If he were a fag, he would no longer have his place. He would be no longer fit to lead. Nazi _has his place_. There has to be a way to fix this. There has to be. A way to...purge these degenerate influences. Nazi...doesn't really know how to do that himself.

Himmler tried, and Nazi really does respect Himmler, but the results of his experiments were...inconclusive at best, and lethal at worst. While Nazi is sure he wouldn't die, he would rather avoid the method. Who who can he _ask?_

Ancap is out—he'd probably just scam him. Commie is out—he's already disgusted with him, and it would only be worse if Nazi revealed it wasn't just some random drunk nonsense. Fellow alt-right ideologies would reject him. Damn it. Who...?

Oh. Nazi curls his lip. _Christian Conservative_. It...isn't ideal, and he hates the very notion of it, but—

Nazi breathes in, breathes out. Bites his cheek till he tastes iron, and buries into his pillow. _Fix this_ , he thinks, _I can fix this_. It shouldn't need to be fixed in the first place. The world has gone insane. Liberal agenda, Jews, _Commie_.

Nazi stares at the wall, balls his fists, and _hates_ with a fervency so strong that the might of it could trample nations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been drunk since I was like, 8. So uhhh, might've forgotten how it feels.  
> Today I gift you with the knowledge that, according to the wiki, Commie's height is 6' 9  
> I was gonna hold off on releasing this for a bit more but patience is not in me. Comments are vvv nice and give me life, so uh. yeah


	4. conservative 100% has good advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nazi goes to see Conservative. Because obviously Conservative has the _best_ advice concerning homosexuality. Definitely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to start putting the **cw at the end notes** in case there are readers that don't want any spoilers at all. If you're a sensitive reader then I recommend checking the end of the chapter

Conservatopia is rotten with it’s wealth of colors (Blacks, Whites, Asians, Muslims, _Jews_ ), and Nazi dislikes spending much time here. It’s one of those... _idea_ spaces. The ones that don’t exist in the human realm, but don’t quite exist _separately_. A lot things are like that. Reality is layered in dimensions, and without a body to act anchor, ideas are nothing but ill-defined forms.

Nazi gets a lot of stares through the streets. Hate, curiosity, wariness—the usual. But Nazi has been careful with his appearance, and although the sleek blue of his form is unmistakable, it’s easy to hide the most unpalatable of his ideology with a mask of charm. Hah!

He finds Christian Conservatism in the church’s courtyard, pruning roses. The place is...religious. There’s a strange white-gray to it, as if they sky were cloudy rather than clear blue. There’s a fountain, a couple of fruit trees, a few benches, and the rest is flower beds. Perfect quiet, bar the fountain’s quiet gurgle and the _snap-snap-snap_ of pruners.

Nazi’s footsteps, loud against the stone path, feel almost intrusive. The air is stifling. He does not belong here, he knows. This place does not _want_ him here. Which figures—this church is a manifestation of Christian values and rejects him in the same way that his own spaces would reject undesirables.

No matter. Since when has being unwanted stopped him? This space cannot truly turn him away. Of course it can’t. It isn’t _harsh_ enough for that, and Nazi tramples easy over the sacred ground.

Nazi clears his throat, honeys his voice, and says: “Are you Christian Conservatism?”

Christian Conservatism startles, turns around. There are roses petals in his hair, soft and pink against the dirty blonde. “Yes, that’s me, although I just go by Conservative. Are you here for worship?”

Nazi holds back from curling his lip. “...No. Rather, I wished to seek your...council.”

“Oh!” Christian Conservatism—Conservative, _whatever—_ says. “Of course, I am the pastor. What are you having trouble with? I haven’t seen you around before...”

“I’m...Social Darwinist,” Nazi says, carefully, and notes the way Conservative’s eyes narrow. “I’m very traditionalist, but recently I moved in with some morally detestable cultural leftists, and I fear their degeneracy is corrupting my pure mind.”

“Oh dear,” says Conservative, “I...you look like a Nazi, and ‘Social Darwinist’ is an obvious euphemism, but I don’t turn away lost souls, even if they’re lost in hatred.”

Ah, what did he expect? “I’m not a Nazi, that’s just what the left calls me. Putting that aside, recently I have been...having homosexual thoughts. I heard you know how to fix this.”

“Oh _dear_ ,” Conservative says, “that’s terrible. We may have some fundamental differences, Nazi, but I’m proud of you for having the courage to admit your faults and ask me for help.”

Nazi twitches. _Get to the point_ , he thinks, _and I don’t need your help. You aren’t helping me. Stop dwelling on this._ “...Right.”

Conservative looks at him kindly, pityingly, like he’s some kind of child, and it makes his skin crawl. “See, Nazi, when we have disagreements with others, the solution isn’t usually violence or blind rejection—rather, understanding and coaxing.”

 _Get to the POINT_ , Nazi thinks. Conservative is plain wrong. When there’s something undesirable it should be purged. “Sure.”

“Now, to you this might sound like a dirty word, but what you need is therapy,” Conservative says, and Nazi actually can’t hide his cringe. “In order to—”

“I,” Nazi interrupts, stressing the sound, “am not going to _therapy_.”

“...Counseling, then,” Conservative says, “you need conversion ther—I mean counseling. It will bring you back to the path of God and cast the evil from your spirit.”

Nazi is familiar with euphemisms. Conservative means to send him to therapy. _Him_. To therapy. He isn’t weak. He doesn't have issues. He’s so done with this religious bullshit. “God is a fraud and ‘spirit’ is vague—I just care if it’ll _get rid of this impurity_.”

“It will,” Conservative says, not a shred of doubt in his voice; complete faith. Nazi is unsure of how _talking to someone_ about his _feelings_ is going to fix this.

“I’m not going to therapy,” Nazi says, again.

“You came for my advice,” Conservative says, “that’s the best I can give you.”

 _That isn’t true_ , Nazi thinks, _you could tell me to shoot myself. Here and now. I might just do it._

Transitioning anchors would fix this, wouldn’t it? It would—would purge any degeneracy that has taken root in this body and mind. Without a host, ideologies are nothing but pure untethered bundles of beliefs. Killing off this iteration of himself would erase all personal memories, would wipe his personality, his attachments, would make _him_ ( _James_ _Reichmanger_ )cease to exist, but…

That might be worth it. Might be better.

“You’re too _soft_ ,”Nazi hisses. “You’re never going to do _anything_.”

“That’s the difference between you and me,” Conservative says, “I’m motivated by love. _You_ are made only of hate. You don’t want conserve our culture, you just want to destroy others’.”

“Attack is the best defense! If _their_ culture corrupts ours, then obviously _something_ has to be done about it.”

“You want to use the government as a tool of oppression,” Conservative says. “You want to take away my rights. And my guns.”

“Guns are dangerous,” Nazi says.

“...” Conservative closes his eyes, opens them. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

 _Oh my dead-god_ , Nazi thinks, _is he ACTUALLY? No fucking way._

“--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence—”

“Shut up,” Nazi says, “can you go _one day_ without talking about ‘muh constitution!’ It’s a scrappy ineffective _piece of paper_.”

Conservative looks at him, Nazi glares back. Bend or break; one side always emerges superior. There’s no such thing as an eternal conflict. Something has to give.

“Actually that was the Declaration of Independence,” Conservative says, “but we can agree to disagree over the whole matter. Are you here only to complain, or do you accept my advice?”

Nazi should end this now. It’s obviously a useless endeavor. Spilling blood in a church is far from the ‘worst’ thing he’s ever done. His or Conservative’s, it doesn't matter. But when Nazi thinks of _dying—_

It’s a uniquely terrifying concept, and every part of him that’s natural rails against it. A creature does not survive without the will to live. Nazi won’t just _abandon himself_ without trying all his options.

Bend or break—Nazi bends.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, “I’ll go. _Thank you_ for the recommendation.”

Conservative genuinely smiles, eyes crinkling, dirty-blonde hair catching the cloud-toned light. “Wonderful! I’m glad I can help. Maybe you’ll even abandon hate along the way. God bless.”

How genuinely stupid.

-

The ideology is a man, with curly brown hair and skin the color of cream. He’s shaded in white-gold and has a professional kind of smile. Nazi’s skin crawls. “It’s wonderful to meet you...White Identitarian? Is that what you would prefer to be called?”

“Yes.”

“Well, not the strangest name for an ideology I’ve ever heard. Is there anything you want to stay before we start?”

“I want to get to the point.” _And stop smiling at me like I’m something delicate_ , Nazi thinks, _I’m not a fairy, don’t treat me like a woman._ But that seems petty to bring up.

“Of course. Alright then. Who are you having these thoughts about? A human? An ideology?”

“An authoritarian branch of communism. Commie. He’s straight, but I think Anarcho-Communism corrupted me with his faggotry.”

“That would make sense” the counselor says, “the left knows that gayness weakens a society and seek to spread their destruction. Is this the first time you’ve had such thoughts?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had similar thoughts about girls?”

Nazi loves blonde-haired blue eyed girls, the timid kind, the kind that would keep the house and take care of children. He thinks they’re beautiful, ideal, model. He can imagine raising a child with one.

He...has never imagined co-populating with one. When he tries, her face is blurry, her voice foggy, and her body is _beautiful_ but it is not _desirable_. And unfamiliar. A stranger. Something akin to nausea rises in his throat.

(Commie’s face is glass clear—sharp and scarred and possessed by a smoldering intensity. His voice is deep and baritone, steady and familiar. His hands are around Nazi’s neck, wrists, and he binds him completely in an authoritarian rule. His teeth are on Nazi’s neck, and—)

Nazi stops there. Why Commie? Why only ever Commie?

“ _No_ ,” he manages to grind out, through his teeth. It’s shameful.

“...I see, I see,” says the counselor. “When is the last time you went to church?”

God. He hopes it doesn’t devolve into some meaningless blabber about the light of Jesus. “Never. I don’t go to church.”

The counselor snaps his fingers. “There’s your issue! You must purify in the salvation of God and confess your sins. He will guide you back to the right path. You must...”

Nazi twitches. _Useless_. So useless. Here he is, going to _therapy_ , doing his best to actually cooperate and fix this, and he’s getting _preached at_.

-

Nazi lasts two more sessions before his patience breaks. He stands up, mid-lecture, and shoots the counselor dead through the skull.

Conservative is going to be disappointed in him. _Angry_ at him. No matter. That’s never mattered before. All Nazi cares about is that this _didn’t work_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: brief conversion therapy (no idea how accurate it is, though, considering I've never been to that myself)
> 
> Conservative was actually a headache for me to write. I tried my best to get his characterization good but idk how it turned out. sorry. Also I feel like this chapter was boring so. double sorry.
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to stop in! please don't hesitate to leave a comment, because I literally eat comments in order to feed my will to live lmao


	5. maple is sweeter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> >Come to think of it...the last time him and Commie were alone together, like this, alone in the depths of night with a blizzard biting at the walls—that was back during WWII. 
> 
> after killing the counselor Nazi gets home late and Commie is waiting for him. stuff happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no cw this chapter besides the usual!

After killing the counselor, Nazi spends the rest of the evening kind of...walking around. He leaves Conservatopia. He avoids anywhere that looks vaguely leftist. The dimension of ideas...it isn't _just_ for politics. It's a general haze of human consciousness—settling like a blanket over the human realm. Things blur and shift and change by the day. By the _hour_ , even.

Which is to say, clear starry night turns into a swirling blizzard nightmare in mere minutes.

It's fucking _c_ _old_. Unpleasant. Not wet, though. Nazi is no warmer than the snow on his skin, and it doesn't melt. That's something at least.

...He should go back to the house. Go indoors. He hates the cold. _Hates_ it. At this rate, he's going to get sick. Or frostbitten. But he doesn't want to see Commie.

The cold verses his determination. Bend or break—Nazi breaks. He goes back despite himself. The living room windows are lit with a cozy orange flicker. Someone is still awake. Nazi pauses outside the door. Breathes in, breathes out.

It's, what, two in the morning? Commie goes to sleep early. The light is probably Ancap working late.

He opens the door. Warmth immediately cocoons him. Nazi shakes off snow. It falls into a pile at his feet.

"Nazi, welcome back. Where were you?"

Fuck, he jinxed it. That's Commie. He's sitting on the couch, book in hand, firelight illuminating his form. His coat is off. Only a loosely fitted white-collar shirt covers his top, top three buttons undone, sleeves rolled up, and it's just—a lot of skin. Especially compared to the amount Commie usually shows.

Nazi swallows.

Commie has—a lot of scars. They spread over his arms, tear through his chest, creep across his collar and up his neck, kiss the sides of his face, right up to his eyes. Nazi has always regarded them with derision, as a testament to how miserably communism always fails—but now, now he can't help but think: _you're still alive, you've been fought so much, and you're still alive. You keep ensnaring hearts. You keep rising up._

"Where I've been is none of you're business," Nazi huffs. "Don't stick your nose into everyone elses' business."

Commie raises a brow.

...Fair.

"You've been avoiding me for the last few days," Commie says, "and leaving the house to go somewhere. If you're plotting something, then it's absolutely my business." He snaps his book closed and sets it aside, onto the coffee table, right next to...

_What?_

Homosexual thoughts fade to the back of Nazi's mind. There's a steel bowl, full of white powder. With a spoon in it. But Commie doesn't do drugs. He's too respectable for that.

"What,"Nazi squints, "is _that_."

Commie blinks. "How?"

"The—thing," Nazi says, "on the table. The bowl of powder. Are you doing _drugs?_ Is that why you're still awake? To do drugs in secret like some kind of degenerate?"

Commie looks at the bowl, then at Nazi, back at the bowl, back at Nazi, then—then he fucking _laughs_. It starts quiet, just a tremble of his shoulders, but then his chest starts to shake, and he laughs—deep, genuine, and loud. He laughs till there are tears in his eyes.

Commie is...a very serious person. He doesn't laugh frequently. His amusement is quieter, briefer. This is rare, and despite himself, Nazi doesn't—doesn't dislike it.

" _What?_ "

Commie wipes at his eyes, grin still wide. "Nazi, Nazi. That is _snow_. Besides, you don't...people don't eat drugs in big bowls using spoons. And I stayed up waiting for you."

"Oh," Nazi says, crawl of embarrassment over his skin. That makes much more sense. Then—"Wait, you're eating _snow?_ "

"Very delicious," the Slav says, "it's dry powder kind. Much better than crunchy kind. Wet kind is also good. Very filling." Commie gestures to the bowl. "You should try some."

Christ. "I'm not eating _snow_ that you got from god-knows-where. Eating snow, really Commie? This is the problem with communism—you all starve."

A snort. "Lifting lines from Ancap, now? You aren't even complete real capitalist—although, still very bad. You should try before dismissing, да? I also have black birch twigs. Very flavorful."

He must be kidding. He _actually_ must be joking. But the Commie gestures to an innocuous pile of peeled twigs, and Nazi squints and—yep. There's teeth marks. "You're eating _sticks?_ "

Commie crosses his arms. "Not _sticks_. Just bark—you know, green bit. Alive part. Nutritious and delicious! Perfect sugar-free snack."

"It's a stick, Commie."

An eye roll. The Slav digs another twitch out of his pocket. "Try some."

"I'm not eating _wood_. You're actually insane."

Commie pauses, frowns slightly, shrugs. Tucks the twig away. "Maybe sometime else. At least try snow? It's just snow."

 _No_ , he wants to say, but Commie is asking nicely, and looks genuinely hopeful, and Nazi is not a pushover, but... Recently Commie has been—taking care of him. Giving him unrequested aid. Taking care of him when he was sick, bringing him to bed when he was drunk, playing Call of Duty together...

It is just a little bit of snow. How bad can it be? Besides, afterward, he'll be able to say _told you so_.

(His will verses Commie's request. Bend or break. Nazi bends.)

" _Fine._ "

Commie's colors shift and dance, almost drip into the air around him. For a moment, his edges go a soft pastel shade. It is...not a shade Nazi has seen much on him before, not really. "Here, comrade." He holds out the bowl.

Nazi takes it. This is stupid. What is he even doing? He takes a bite of the snow.

It's cold. And...tastes like snow. Vaguely like pine and earth. Something fresh. It...isn't actually that bad. Nazi still doesn't see the point of going through the trouble.

"It tastes like snow," Nazi says. "I really don't know why you like this."

Commie hums thoughtfully, peers at him. "That's right. You like sweets, да?"

Yes. A lot. But that's a secret. Sweet things aren't masculine.

"No," he lies, "I like everything dark and bitter."

"Right, and that's why you drank entire jar of sugar."

Nazi sniffs. "That was asserting dominance."

"...Right," Commie says, "Anyway. I know perfect thing. You know sugar on snow, да?"

Nazi hasn't heard of that in his life. It sounds stupid. "No."

"Eй-Богу!" Commie exclaims, looking genuinely surprised. "Never? I thought you loved Vermont?"

Nazi narrows his eyes, brows furrowing. Yes, of course he loves Vermont. A White land of green pastures, with a history so tied to his own ideals... The model land. "What does Vermont have to do with this...sugar on snow?"

"Ah well," Commie makes a somewhat vague gesture. "It isn't made _only_ there, definitely not. But that's where I picked it up from. Visited recently, you see, after everyone started calling Sanders a commie. He isn't but democratic socialism is a start, I suppose. I just wanted to see his home state—it's turned very liberal."

Nazi wrinkles his nose. Obviously he knows. Leftist rot has infiltrated even that respectable place. It's still almost entirely White, though. That, at least, remains unchanged.

"You still haven't explained what this sugar-snow is."

"It's—hm," he pauses. "I can just make some. You trust the food I make, да?"

Yes. Commie's cooking is...acceptable. It's still inferior, but Nazi has decided to put up with it. For the sake of the alliance. Nothing else. (It's...good, actually.) "Your Slavic dishes disgust me."

A beat.

"...Right," he says. Weird tone. Disappointed? Disgusting. Nazi's skin crawls. He feels cold. _It isn't THAT bad_ , he wants to say. Doesn't. "If you do not trust my word, you at least trust Vermont's taste, да?"

Yes. Mosty. Vermont has _good stock_. "I...suppose."

"Right," Commie says, "I'll go to kitchen. This will only take moment. Take a seat."

"...Sure."

He takes a seat. Commie goes to the kitchen and takes the bowl of snow with him. The fire cracks. Outside, the blizzard is still raging. Commie is humming in the other room, and Nazi could sink right into that voice.

Come to think of it...the last time him and Commie were alone together, like this, alone in the depths of night with a blizzard biting at the walls—that was back during WWII. Nazi bites his tongue.

He could have beaten the Soviets if not for that goddamn _snow_. Commie gloated so much, then. He laughed right in Nazi's face. Neither of them existed in the same iterations, back then. The memories are blurred, exist only in fact, without any of the attached emotions or thoughts (because the 'person' that those feelings belonged to is _dead_ , now) but Nazi remembers that Commie _hated_ him, then. Hated him in a raw kind of way that...doesn't really show itself so blatantly anymore.

Which...doesn't mean the hate is no longer _held_. Nazi would know better than possibly anyone. Commie's contempt could just be—tempered, dressed up, disguised for the sake of alliance.

His chest twinges at the thought. His skin itches. Something dark and angry and _bitter_ rises in the back of his throat, like bile.

He—doesn't want that, Nazi realizes, he doesn't want Commie to hate him. He doesn't want Commie to be disgusted with him. He wants—wants to laugh over a COD session, wants to make fun of anarchists together, wants to spar. Wants Commie to acknowledge the superiority of his ideals. Wants to lean his head into Commie's chest, completely drown himself in the man's warmth, lay in bed together. Wants—

(Something romantic?)

 _Oh no_ , Nazi thinks. _No no no no no no no no no—_

"Done!" Commie calls. "Come over!"

Nazi complies almost without thought. His head aches. He's—it's—

The kitchen is bright and warm. There's a pot on the stove, full of some thick, brown-amber syrup. Commie is holding a ladle of it. He gestures him over.

"Watch."

Nazi pushes away that—that ridiculous notion and refocuses to whatever Commie is trying to show him. A tip of the ladle. Syrup pours down in a slow stream. Upon contact with the snow it kind of...hardens, solidifies into a taffy texture.

Commie grins and shoves the bowl at him, along with a fork. "Eat."

"I still don't know _what_ that is." But he takes the bowl anyway. Digs his fork into the taffy, lifts up, glances at Commie to gauge if he's doing it right. The taffy comes with snow stuck all over it. He takes a somewhat hesitant bite.

It's... _maple_ , Nazi realizes, then almost snorts. Of course it's maple. Chewy. Sweet. Hot-cold. The taffy is still warm and melty, the snow is freezing.

Commie looks at him with something that isn't quite _nervous_ , isn't quite _excited_ but—vaguely hopeful. Endearing.

 _Shut up_ , Nazi thinks. _It isn't endearing._ _I'm_ _not a fag_ _._ What he feels towards Commie is just—friendship and physical attraction. The friendship is expected. The physical attraction is leftist rot that's infiltrated his mind.

"Good, да?"

"...Yeah," Nazi says. "It's good." Pause. "...Thanks."

"Не вопрос!"

"Speak English or German."

Commie rolls his eyes. "No problem."

They're silent for a moment. Outside, the blizzard rages. Commie's colors are vermilion and pastel-red. Nazi's focus keeps straying to Commie's chest. White collar shirt—sleeves rolled up, three buttons undone. _Cover up_ , Nazi wants to say, _stop it. Be decent._ But Commie isn't being indecent, it's _Nazi_ who's letting his discipline waver. Disgusting. Despicable.

Nazi smooths the wrinkles in his shirt. Refocuses. "...What were you humming earlier? It sounded familiar."

Commie startles, just a bit. "You heard me?"

Not just heard, actively listened. Strained his ears over the cracking fire. "Yeah."

"Oh," the Slav says. " _Katyusha._ "

Nazi tenses, chills. His expression twists. "Erika is better."

"Your taste is shit."

"Your musical taste is compromised with Marxist rot."

"...Katyusha isn't even an ideological song."

"Whatever. Erika is still superior."

Commie huffs a laugh. "Ridiculous. Arguing with you is useless. Agree to disagree?"

"You're ridiculous." Nazi sighs. Commie raises a brow at him. His eyes glint red and gold. "But sure."

Nazi continues to eat the taffy. Commie gets a second fork and snacks on it, too. Close proximity. Comfortable. It's late. How late? He glances at the clock. Three twenty two AM. It's been over an hour since he got back. How did that happen?

No wonder his thoughts are so muddied. No wonder he's giving in so easily to this kind of companionship. It isn't his fault, it's just that he's tired and more easily influenced. Nazi bites the side of his cheek. Physical attraction. Degenerate leftist whorishness dirtying his thoughts. Nothing more.

 _Nothing more_.

Commie looks relaxed. Not in a soft, wimpy kind of way. But rather, in a bright and _ready_ kind of way. Slow languid movement, like a lion lounging in its own territory, or, perhaps more accurately—a bear in its den. It's a good look on him.

Fucking Hell. Nazi bites his cheek. And digs his nails into his palms hard enough to bleed. Commie glances at him. He stills. What a state he is. What an absolute eyesore. Freezing up because of some leftist? Having _thoughts_ about a man? What would Father think?

Nazi almost winces at the thought. Can feel the ache of phantom bruises. Sharp cut of glass beneath his skin. Pulsing pain of minor fractures. He...might need that, now. Deserve that. Punishment and discipline is how to make a child behave. Nazi is no longer a child, but he must keep his own discipline _strict_.

 _Fix this_.

"It's late," Nazi says. "Goodnight. I hope you trip up the stairs."

Commie chuckles quietly. "Goodnight."

Nazi almost smiles at him. _Almost_. Instead, he steels his nerves and smooths his face. Wonders what Himmler would think.

 _I hate this_ , he thinks, going up the stairs, closing the door of his room behind him. _I hate this. I hate this. I hate this._ Christian Conservatism was absolutely useless in curing his homosexual thoughts. They've only gotten worse. Only gotten more consuming.

What did he expect? Conservatives are useless anyway. Nazi cannot fix this using something as unscientific as _God_ and _faith_. Religion would have one believe that 'all people are equal' or some bullshit. Are the disabled equal to the fit? _No!_ Do all races have the same features and cognitive abilities? _No!_

Instead of talking to some stuffy conservative that has 'moral lines' that he 'won't cross,' Nazi should have looked to his own regime for solutions. Who cares if a few died in testing? If the results were a _little_ inconclusive? Faggotry is caused by both cultural rot and an infection of femininity. A loss of masculinity.

From that perspective, it's no wonder Nazi has been wanted to be fucked and claimed like a _girl_. Himmler's tests were inconclusive, but his theory was on sound basis. Nazi doesn't care if it's a little risky.

 _Fix-this_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually a born vermonter. Sugar on snow is really good. Vermont is very nice in general, though we have had a long history with White supremacy.  
> Uhm, as usual, I hope you liked this chapter! I always worry about making them ooc. authunity is a fine line to walk. I'm trying ;-; thank you for stopping back in and reading! please don't be shy to leave a comment if you enjoyed! I feed on comments. :)


	6. a very very bad idea, but what else is new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As usual, Nazi has really bad ideas. And Ancom is (actually for real this time) kind of helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **cw at the chapter end notes**

On Friday he gets up very, very pointedly avoids Commie, and asks Ancap if he can rent a complex in the basement. At least two rooms. One of which being a bathroom.

Ancap arches a brow. “For how long?”

Nazi ponders. “Lets say…a week. And longer, if I need an extension. You _do_ have a complex down there that will lock securely, don’t you? Enough to...keep out any leftists, hypothetically.”

Ancap stares at him for a moment. “...Why?”

“Does it matter?”

Pause. Ancap taps his boot against the floor. “Ah, I suppose not!” Ancap says, flippantly. “Yes I do have one! Excellent doing business with you!”

-

On Saturday, all materials assembled, everything set up, Nazi quietly gets up before the break of dawn, creeps down the basement stairs, and locks everything sealed and shut behind him. It isn’t wet or dirty down here. Ancap’s property is well-kept. Nazi made extra sure to clean the whole place spotless.

 _Self-experimentation_. Ideally, Nazi would’ve preceded this with a line of other subjects, but this is—this is just for himself. He cannot _wait_ that long. The theory is sound, he assures himself, and ignores the flicker of unease and nervousness.

-

Sunday passes in a haze.

-

Monday, beneath the feverish fog, he starts hearing incessant knocking at the door. Banging. Commie? But Ancap’s security holds well, and the noises fade away on the edges of a dream.

-

Tuesday, Nazi cries for the first time since childhood.

-

Wednesday, Nazi decides this _might_ have been a mistake.

-

Thursday—

(Ideologies are not invincible. At least, not their physical bodies. Certainly, they are _much more_ durable than a normal human form. But they are not flawless.)

-

Friday, his fever breaks. He forces himself through the motions of hygiene and presentably. Thinks: _this has to work_.

-

Sunday, Ancap texts him.

 _Still alive?_  
…  
_Commie is actually gonna kill me at this rate._  
_I’m not kidding._  
_Nazi, seriously._ _Also my rent. This is your last pre-paid day._  


_Fuck you._

_Haha. Nice. Anyway. Are you coming out? Another day is $1500._

Nazi bites his cheek. Gives himself till tomorrow morning. Thinks of Commie—

(It didn’t fucking work.)

-

Monday, Nazi drags himself off the floor at four AM, ignores the nausea, ignores the weakness, ignores the migraine, and takes a shower. He then dresses into a fresh uniform, and straps a gun to his hip (although he’s unsure of his ability to actually shoot it, in this state.) He then shoves anything potentially incriminating into the garbage and lights the whole trash on fire. Ancap is probably gonna get upset at him. He doesn't fucking _care._

It didn’t work. It didn’t _fucking_ work. What’s even the point? God, he hates this. He _hates_ this. He hates Commie, hates Ancap, _hates_ himself for being unable to extract the impurity. _Hates—_

(It didn’t _work_.)

Nazi bites down on his cheek. Smooths his uniform, even though there’s nothing more to nitpick at. Unlocks the door. Walks out. The steel door is dented. Commie? He remembers Commie being there. Kind of. Vaguely. Maybe.

The basement staircase enters into a hallway which connects directly to the living room. There’s a light on, by the couch. Nazi squints.

“...Ancom?”

The degenerate startles, whips around. “Holy shit. You look like shit.”

Nazi twitches. Feels something like self-consciousness crawl over his skin. Curls his lip. “Exceedingly observant, as always, I see. Why are you even awake? There’s no way you got out of bed this early.” It’s five AM. Even Commie doesn’t rise until six thirty.

“You don’t fucking say. Sleep is for the weak. I haven’t gone to bed yet.”

Of course. “You’re an embarrassment to ideology. I don’t know how Commie stands you.”

Ancom rolls his eyes. “Sure sure. Tankie’s been worried for you all week. Much longer with no response from you and I think he would’ve actually murdered Ancap.”

Commie’s been concerned. About him. Nazi shoves those feeling aside. “And you don’t care?”

A snort. “Ancap said you weren’t killing anyone besides maybe-yourself. And I would genuinely throw a party if you died.”

“Feeling’s mutual.”

“Well fuck you too.”

Nazi’s head throbs. He ignores Ancom. Goes to the kitchen. Drinks water. Feels sick. Gets a box of plain saltines. Simple food. Wonders what the fuck he’s doing. Why he’s bothering to nourish himself when he _failed to cure himself_.

He goes back to the living room. Leans against the wall.

(At this point, in order to embody his values properly, there’s only one option, isn’t there?)

Or—maybe not. There are...still things left to try. Like...a lobotomy, or aversion therapy. But those could prove just as painful as Himmler’s solutions, could prove just as _ineffective_ , and Nazi isn’t—isn’t—isn’t entirely sure he could _take_ that. The thought of it _not working_ is just—

Is there someone else he can ask..? Someone who might _know?_

Nazi glances at Ancom.

“...Hey degenerate.”

The other ideology looks practically dead on his feet. Whatever. Nazi...probably looks worse. “What. Why are you talking to me.”

Nazi licks his tongue over his teeth, hard enough to hurt. “You...your host was a queer back as a human, right?”

Pause. A sigh. “Fucking obviously. Being an ancom doesn’t make you LGBT.”

He holds back from sneering. He’s not here to fight. Not really. No matter how incorrect Ancom is. “Whatever. Have you ever done...” lobotomies are out of practice. He isn’t sure he could find a practitioner even if he wanted one. “...aversion therapy?”

Ancom’s colors immediately flare. Lime green, glittering like emerald. _Bright_. Nazi holds back a wince. “Are you here just to mock me!?”

“Oh _shut up_. Can you stop overreacting for _once in your life?_ ”

Ancom bristles. “I am not _overreacting_. You always do this. Why are—”

“Just _answer the question_.” Nazi snaps a saltine between his teeth. This isn’t the time to start squabbling. He has more self-control than that. “Have you or haven’t you?”

A beat.

Nazi glares, the race-traitor glares back. Another sigh. Ancom kicks up his boots, grimaces. “Yes. Name a shitty treatment for being LGBT and one of my hosts has probably been through it.”

Not incredibly surprising. “Did it...work? Back when you were human, did it work with any of your hosts?”

Ancom looks at him with something akin to disbelief. “Are you _really—_ Jesus fuck. You know how fucking _painful_ that shit was? How absolutely _trauma inducing?_ And you’re just _asking me?_ What are you even trying to—”

“I _asked_ ,” Nazi says, through his teeth, “if it _works_.”

“What? So you can go experiment on people? So you can fucking— _put people through that?_ No! I’m not going to fucking tell you anything! Why would I?!”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Nazi spits, “I don’t care how painful it is, and I’m not going to— _probably_ not going to go apply it to people. So tell me if it fucking _works!_ ”

“Why would you—” Ancom stops, stares. Nazi stills unconsciously. Clenches his jaw. “... _oh_. No. It doesn’t work. Nothing ever worked in any of my hosts. Even when I actually _tried_.”

“Oh.”

“Fucking obviously. You either are or you aren’t. It’s not an illness.”

 _Incurable_ , Nazi thinks. _Incurable, incurable, incurable_.

“No,” he says, “it’s a _plague_. A plague that destroys the west.”

“It’s not something you can be ‘infected’ by, Nazi.”

That’s a _lie_. Nazi never thought anything like this before being around Commie so much. Some of his previous iterations even had _wives_. If it were something _inherent_ to this body then surely he would’ve felt like this the moment he saw Commie? But no. It’s like a wild fire, a disease—only rooting itself further.

“I never had thoughts like this before I moved in with you _leftists_.”

“You repressed them?”

“No, you dumb fuck. I didn’t _have them_ until Commie started to—to _be around_. And act all _nice_ , and pretend he _cares_.”

“Commie?” Ancom asks.

Nazi bites his cheek. Doesn't answer.

“That’s called demi-sexuality, you idiot. You’re either a gay or bi demi-sexual. Have you never had hot friends before?”

He holds back a sneer. Of course he hasn’t. High school was shit. His hometown was fucking _liberal_. Apparently standing up for traditional values makes you _unpopular_. And what the fuck? _Demi-sexuality_. He’s never heard that word in his life. Another leftist scam. “What is that, another fake _gender?_ ”

“Fuck off. I said sexuality. You know it isn’t a gender. It’s only being physically attracted after an emotional connection is formed.”

That—

sounds right.

Why does it sound right?

“I’m not a _girl_ ,” Nazi mutters, “homosexuality is _effeminate_. It makes people _weak_ and is caused by _femininity_ and _corruption_.”

Ancom scoffs. His colors have started cooling down. They’re back to fern-green. Still shifting along the edges, but they always are. “That’s a load of bullshit. I don’t believe in ‘femininity’ and ‘masculinity’ but have you even _seen_ Commie? You would call _him_ feminine?”

What. Nazi’s thoughts screech to a halt.

“….Commie is a queer?”

“What?” Ancom squints at him. “Yes? I thought you knew? He’s pan-sexual.”

Pan sexual. Pan sexual. Sexual for pans? Nazi doesn’t even know what that means. Commie likes _men?_

“...What?”

“He likes everything,” Ancom says, “all types. Men woman and others. It doesn't matter to him.”

Commie likes men. Commie isn’t straight. Nazi—

(Has a chance?)

What?

“Jeez.” Ancom flicks a pen at him. It hits his knee. He doesn’t move. “What’d, you stop functioning?”

“Shut up,” Nazi says, voice oddly blank of vitriol. He can’t think. “Just—shut up.”

A beat.

“Fine. I’m going to sleep. Night.”

Ancom goes up the stairs to his own room. Nazi glances at the clock. Five forty two. Commie rises in under an hour. Nazi should...go back to his room, he thinks. Should avoid the Slav. The stairs are _right there_. They go from the living room up to the hall they all dorm in.

But his legs feel locked in place, and his head is still throbbing, and his body still aches, and Nazi...can’t work up the motivation to _do_ anything. He eats saltines absentmindedly. Crack crack crack. The wall is cold and hard on his back. He waits. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **cw** : self-experimentation, highly implied to be in the same vein as Himmler's tests on gay people. it's **VERY NON EXPLICIT** , but I figured I should warn just in case  
> ////////
> 
> I actually hc Commie as working-class sexual, but pan also fits.  
> Yeah! So I put Nazi as a gay demi in this one. He's never had hot friends before lmao.   
> ahahahah. I hope this wasn't boring and wasn't too sharp a twist in tone. uhm. I struggle with ancom. I hope you liked this. As usual, comments are very appreciated! I eat them. So don't be shy :)


	7. I don't know what to title this one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commie comes downstairs and, surprise surprise, is absolutely _furious_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no cw outside the usual

The clock hits six. Six ten. Six twenty. Six twenty five. He can hear the Soviet Anthem vaguely in the distance. That's Commie's first and only alarm. He always wakes up on first ring.

Nazi nibbles at a saltine. Six thirty. He hears Commie's footsteps—relatively quiet (conscious of the morning hour) but nonetheless present and walking down the hall. Then—red. Commie is at the top of the stairs. Nazi looks at him tiredly. Commie stills. They meet eyes. For a moment, everything is silent, then—

It's like a switch has been flipped. A gun fired. A match thrown.

Commie's face contorts, twists through a series of expressions so fast Nazi almost doesn't catch them. Confusion, worry, _relief_ , anger, rage—and his features settle into something damn near _murderous_. His colors darken into the red of spilled blood, increase in saturation so much it's near blinding. Absolute, unparalleled _fury._

Nazi's heart skips beats in his chest.

(In the height of its power, the Soviet union was a truly terrifying entity—bulldozing nations and painting everything in its wake blood-red. They were not to be trifled with. Nazi Germany learned this the hard way.)

Nazi is...not entirely sure what he did to piss Commie off this badly.

Commie's footsteps are not quiet as they trample down the stairs, across the room. He descends like a blizzard—fast, large, and _ruthless_. Nazi doesn't even try to avoid it. Commie slams him against the wall, hard enough to knock him breathless. His hand capture's Nazi's throat just below the jaw, grip iron and bruising, pressing down on his windpipe.

" _What_ ," Commie growls, face close, _too_ _close—_ "have you been _doing?_ Full _week_ , Nazi! Absolute radio silence!"

Nazi wheezes. The grip abruptly loosens. It does not disappear.

"We are attempting war against center!" Commie's eyes are blazing gold and glinting red, like sharp edged rubies. "We have no time for you to—to lock yourself in basement doing Marx-knows what without _any word at all!_ You could have been _dead!_ "

 _Shut up_ , Nazi wants to shout, _why can't you be like Ancom? Why can't you just NOT FUCKING CARE. You still haven't told me why you care!_

Instead, he bares his teeth. "It's none of your _business_ ," Nazi spits, "I'm not one of your little soldiers that you can keep your thumb over. _Unhand me_."

Commie does not.

"You are my _comrade_ ," Commie says, voice harsh and dictatorial. " _Mine_."

_Mine._

Nazi thinks of the blanket. _You look good in red._ Weird tones to his voice. Caring when he shouldn't. Playing COD together. Pan-sexual. Likes everything. A chance?

(Not a chance Nazi would ever take, of course. Because there is a gaping abyss between _gay thoughts_ and _gay acts_ , but—)

 _I have a gun_ , Nazi should say, _my hands are free_. Instead—"Ancom said you're pan. A _fag_."

Commie drops him like a hot coal. Hands tucking into the pockets of his coat. A half-step back—stops. His colors temper down into something more normal.

" _What_ ," Nazi spits. "Are you or aren't you?"

"...да," Commie says, eyeing him with something close to caution. "I am. Pan."

"You're a fag," Nazi says, something like incredulity, something like disbelief. It's just somehow—different, to hear it from Commie's lips. ( _A chance!_ Some part of him screams. _A chance! A chance! A chance!_ ) "You're—"

"да."

"You're—"

A sigh. "You do not have to repeat it."

Nazi wants to laugh. He must look bad enough already. He does not want to also look crazy. It's just—the chance of it being requited, the possibility that, if he so chose, he could actually _indulge_ this desire—

_Doesn't make a difference._

It _doesn't_. The basis on which Nazi rejected this homosexuality was never to do with Commie not liking him. It was never to do with whether or not Nazi has a _chance_. It's the principal of it. The ideology of it. The fact that, as Authoritarian Right, as a member of the _Herrenvolk_ , he _cannot be degenerate_.

Homosexuality is a plague, something that weakens nations, that breeds races out of power. It a fundamental flaw. It stands in the way of evolution. It's disgusting and _wrong_.

(This could be requited!)

Nazi could—could _ask_.

_Do you want me? Do you want to paint me in your color? Do you feel what I'm feeling?_

Disgusting. Utterly degenerate.

 _Comrade_ , Commie said. _Mine_.

Commie...he is a lot of things, but he is not weak. He is not effeminate. He is not dirty or perverse or a druggie. He should not be queer. He...is queer. What kind of sense does that make? It—it makes no sense. It makes no _fucking_ sense.

"...Nazi?"

He startles. Comes back to himself. He's been staring.

"This is stupid," Nazi mutters. His throat hurts, and not only because of the Slav's bruising grip. There's a lump. It's hard to breathe around. _Ridiculous_. He will not cry. "You're stupid. I hate you. I hate you even _more_ now."

Commie is silent.

 _Say something!_ Nazi wants to scream. _Hit back! Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me it's a joke. Squash this hope, here and now, before it can grow into something worse._ Nazi doesn't even know what he's thinking about. It's all a mess. A tangled mess of human emotion. None of this is right. It's all outside his experience. It's all outside the boundaries of his own ideology.

And that's the heart of this, isn't it? Commie is—is fogging the lines of his beliefs. This is a slippery slope. One step down and Nazi will find himself falling into something unforgivable.

"You're trying to temp me," Nazi hisses, "you're trying to drag me into some kind of _perversion_. _Arschficker_."

Commie flinches, ever so slightly. Nazi's stomach sinks with something cold and nauseating.

"This is precisely why I never told you," Commie says. His tone is flat and blank. It's a terrible tone on him. Nazi hates it. Hates Commie for being weak enough to sound that way. Hates himself _more_ for putting it there, even though the Slav _deserves it_.

"I have to go," Nazi says, abruptly. Because this—it's too much. All too much at the same time. His head is still throbbing. The saltines churn in his stomach. "Bye."

Commie sighs. Nazi leaves.

He slams his door shut behind him. Flops onto his bed. It bounces a bit. The blankets wrinkle. Irritating.

There are two options from here. Either find a cure or find a new host. There is no in-between. There is no _third_ _position_ in this.

Commie likes men. It _doesn't matter_. It could be requited. _It doesn't matter_. Nazi could indulge. _It doesn't matter_. There's no one that could stop him. _It doesn't matter_. That's exactly the point. There's no one to stop him but himself. And he knows, to the very core of his ideological being, with every bit of him that worships the nuclear family, that indulging would be destructive.

(Commie's hand around his throat, hard enough to bruise. Hot and burning, like a brand. An unrivaled intensity that storms harder than a blizzard. _Mine_.)

(Why does Nazi have to have a choice in this? What if he just—just— _didn't_. What if he had no choice? What if he could indulge without ever having to say _yes?_ What if Commie—

...he wouldn't, though. Useless. Commie would be disgusted if he knew Nazi fantasized about that. _Degenerate_.)

The gun weighs heavy on his hip. There's no third position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is short, sorry fam. The next chapter will be longer I promise. I hope you liked it anyway? 
> 
> per usual, constructive criticism is welcome and comments are very appreciated. So don't be shy! :)


	8. third position

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commie and Nazi talk. Properly. Kind of. Ish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: this chapter is probably the heaviest on both Nazi ideology and suicidal ideation

Nazi spends the day in his room watching gay cringe compilations. He only emerges when he’s relatively sure no one will be awake—or at least not in the common room. He checks the fridge. There’s a glass container with _Nazi_ , written on it in straight letters. Commie’s handwriting.

It’s borscht. He eats it cold on the couch. 

_Incurable_. This is not a foreign concept. Even Himmler deemed many homosexuals ‘incurable.’ What Ancom told him this morning—it isn’t a foreign concept. It isn’t an impossibility. Biological or twisted deep by leftist influence...either way the result is the same. Either way, the result is _unacceptable_.

Two men cannot start a family. Two men cannot further the race. They’re undesirable. Fundamentally inferior.

 _Unacceptable_.

Nazi licks his tongue over his teeth, hard enough to hurt. Takes out his gun—polished and glinting sharply beneath the white lamplight. Hates. _Asphalt culture_. The world is insane. Natural order has been undermined. _He_ has been undermined.

Nazi spins his gun. Whirling silver—mesmerizing. So much ability, so much _power_ , all locked within such a small, elegant form.

Light footsteps behind him. Nazi tenses. Looks back.

Commie is at the bottom of the stairs. His colors are soft and muted. Drowsy colors. Tired colors. Like a slowly burning coal. The clock reads 1:43 AM. Why is he awake? The Slav’s eyes flick down to Nazi’s gun. His lips purse.

“Nazi...I wanted to...apologize. For earlier.”

Nazi snorts. “You aren’t sorry. You always feel justified in whatever you do. You don’t have to act _nice_ with me, Commie. I’m not something you have to be dishonest with.”

“I—” Commie stops. Thins his lips. Sighs. “No. I suppose I’m not. I’m not sorry for being so rough. I’m not sorry for being angry. But...I am sorry for hurting you. I didn’t mean that. It bruised, да?”

 _I liked it_ , Nazi doesn’t say _._ He—it makes him angry, yes, the fact that _he_ , a superior Aryan, was manhandled by some _Slav_. But… he _liked_ it. Has a perverted desire to do it again, in a different context.

“I insulted you. I’m not sorry either,” Nazi says, instead. Thinks of Commie’s voice: flat and blank. _This is precisely why I never told you_. Feels something thick and cold roil in the pit of his stomach. “I am not sorry, and you deserve it completely, but...don’t put much stock in it. My feelings didn’t change incredibly. It’s hard for me to hate you more than I already do.”

A beat.

Commie laughs softly. It is not a siren’s laugh, but it might as well be. “Nazi—”

“Commie,” Nazi interrupts. He isn't sure if he’d be able to listen to Commie, right now, like this. He just...can’t. It will be too much temptation. The gun is heavy in his hands. There is no third position. “Do you know the concept of the _body national?_ ”

A pause. “National body…? Blood?”

He hums. Toys with his gun. “Blood and Soil. _Blut und Boden_. Soil is the people’s land, which they will cultivate into something beautiful. Blood...that is the national body. A group of chosen people that will spearhead the fight for our future. Each member is perfect, is a pinnacle of evolution.”

“...That is concept, да.” Commie shifts. Takes a half step forward, eyes the gun, pauses like he’s thought better of it. “How’s your point?” His tone is uneasy.

Nazi laughs harshly. “ _My point?_ Commie, the Master Race—that is my people. That is who I belong to. That is who I _serve_.”

“...You’re tired.”

He must sound insane, nonsensical, barely coherent, but that hardly matters. Not right now. He isn’t trying to convince Commie of anything, he’s trying to steel his _own_ resolve.

“There’s no place for you there, you know. There is no place for anyone defective.” _There’s no place for us_. Nazi runs his finger over the barrel of his gun. “The body national...it’s a careful process to form. A deliberate thing. It’s like this gun. Something shaped into perfection.”

“Nazi—”

“No! This isn’t your ideology. You cannot lecture me on this.” Nazi breathes in, breathes out. Commie’s lips are thin. “Tell me, how do you think that body is made?”

“You’ve made it dreadfully apparent in past.”

“One must get rid of undesirables. In your terms...” Nazi lets a small, cold smile carve itself onto his face. It isn't a genuine smile, not really, but it’s something. “It’s like tending a garden. Root out the weeds. Select the best seeds. Watch it bloom in a rich bed. If someone cannot meet that ideal then it’s only natural to dispose of them.”

“You’re blinded by bad theory.”

“Hah! I don’t want to hear that from you. Communism has been broken and bent again and again. I don’t know how you keep believing.”

Bend or break, bend or break—that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? If this host, this iteration of himself, is unable to emerge superior in a battle against homosexuality...then he’s unnecessary. A weakness. A chink in the armor. Not fit to be a spearhead.

Nazi doesn’t—doesn’t dislike this iteration of himself, per se. He likes this set of memories, he likes this experience, he likes the nature of _existing_. He just...it’s unfit. Unacceptable. And he will not lower his standards to accommodate one person.

“I believe because I’m _right_ ,” Commie says.

“You’re delusional.”

“Your whole ideology comes leads to deliberate genocide.”

He wants—wants Commie to understand. The next iteration of himself would ( _will?_ ) probably give an apt explanation but Nazi would—would rather phrase it himself. Wants to see Commie understand _himself_.

How to put this in a way the Slav would understand…?

“...Commie, say you began to undermine your own values. And realized it. What would you do?”

“...Become capitalist pig? I would never.”

They are both fiercely ideological entities. They are both unforgivingly angled towards the collective.

“No. Something more subtle. Say you...started valuing an individual above the revolution, or something. Say you became compromised. Say absolute _degeneracy_ started _crawling_ into your _mind_ and you can’t get it _out_ and—” Nazi grinds his teeth. This isn’t about Commie anymore. “Say _something_ happened. You find yourself unfit to anchor your own ideology. What would you do?”

There are two ways to kill an ideology: change them, or disembody them.

For the ideology themselves, being _changed_ is unquestionably the more dangerous. It doesn’t change the fundamental ideology, changing _that_ is impossible, but it does—does change the mind of the host-body. Effectively, it traps an ideology within an individual that no longer serves them completely. Because ideologies are only able to exercise their influence through their host body, this basically _cripples_ the ideology.

Now—disembodying...this is much easier. It will kill the individual, and it is admittedly bad for the ideology (it takes time to find and merge with a new host. During that time the ideology—now barely sentient, now without any anchor to the material world—cannot influencethe world at _all_. This time can stretch weeks to _years_.) But it is...easy. It is easy.

It will be easy.

“That would not happen,” Commie says, and he sound...concerned? Worried?

What an idiot. He must be figuring it out, now. Why is he _worried?_ He should be happy.

“Suicide isn’t a bad way to go,” Nazi says, “it would be...following in the footsteps of my greatest heroes. It’s an honorable death.”

The gun spins. It is heavy. Silver steel. Perfect to form. And loaded.

“Nazi!”

Commie’s colors darken, lighten, can’t quite decide on a mood. He steps forward. Nazi stops the gun spin. Commie freezes. He is over by the stairs, they both know the gun is loaded; they both know who’s faster. Nazi smirks.

“ _Yes?_ ”

“You...” Commie, for once, does not seem to find words. Why does he _care?_ “...does this have to do with shutting yourself in basement for week and acting weirdly before that?”

“Obviously.”

 _This is your fault_ , he almost says. _I hate you for this_. But that would be...unnecessary, he thinks. Effective in weakening his opponent, perhaps—because Commie has always been terribly emotional—but the thought of putting that flat, blank tone back into the Slav’s voice is just—

Nazi has better ways to emerge superior than _that_.

“You never said _what_ you were doing.”

Fuck it. Nazi swallows past the lump in his throat. Turns back around. Faces the wall. He will not cry. When he speaks, his voice will be smooth and steady. What is he _doing?_ “This body is useless. Corrupted by—by Cultural Bolshvism. I went to see Conservative. His methods didn’t work, so I recreated some of my own.”

Silence. Nazi can almost hear the gears in Commie’s head turning. He is a smart person. Just like Nazi, he’s able to look at the world and see something riddled with issues. He’s able to piece the same parts together into a picture of problems. His solution is different than Nazi’s—but it’s a...respectable effort.

“ _Oh_ ,” Commie says. Nazi looks back. His eyes are wide—ever so slightly. “ _Oh_. You’re—that’s—it isn’t _bad_ thing. There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

Nazi flinches. Actually flinches. God fucking damn it. “Don’t _say_ it like that.”

“I’m being honest.” Commie’s eyes flick to the gun. “No one here cares. You know that. You shouldn’t...”

 _Why do you care_ , Nazi wants to scream, _why do you CARE?_ What’s his incentive? How does this benefit him. How…

“You want to trap AuthRight in a bad body,” Nazi accuses, and he’s sure of it. That must be it. “You want to make me _ineffective_ , you want to weaken my foundations. An ideology can’t function at war with their host.”

“I—”

Nazi laughs. If he doesn't laugh, he thinks he might cry. “You said it yourself. You wouldn’t go against the best interests of your ideology. And those interests are to make me _non functioning—_ ”

“That’s not—”

“You’re _denying_ it? You’re saying it _wouldn’t_ be in _Authoritarian Left’s_ interests? You’d just be _ly_ _ing_. You don’t actually _care_ _—_ ”

“Ей-Богу! Shut up!” Commie barks, his colors are harsh and agitated. A pause. Nazi bites his tongue and keeps quiet. The clock ticks on. _Tick-tick-tick_. Commie closes his eyes, opens them. “да. You are correct. I’m not _denying_ it. It is in my ideology’s best interests. But—”

“Fuck you,” Nazi says. _I hate you._ His hands hurt. He has a headache. There’s something cold and bitter churning in his gut. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck _you—_ ”

“Just _listen!_ ” The frustration in Commie’s voice is palpable. Nazi sneers, but doesn't speak. “It isn’t just that. I...genuinely like you. This iteration of you. I hate your cultural stances, and you’re even more caught up in petty identity politics than _Ancom_ , and you fail to recognize inherent danger of capitalism, but you’re—you’re my friend. Comrade. I don’t want that you _die_.”

 _My friend_ , Commie says, like AuthRight has never betrayed AuthLeft before. _Comrade_ , Commie says, like he trusts him, like they haven’t played this song and dance before and both cut themselves on the result. _I don’t want_ _that_ _you die_ , Commie says, like he cares. Like he really, really _cares_.

Nazi’s whole chest tingles, despite himself.

“...Fuck you,” he says, again, but it’s lost most all vitriol.

Pause. “Can I come closer?”

The obvious answer is no. _No_ , because Commie is a fag and a leftist and Nazi it teetering on the edge of falling into something unforgivable. _No_ , because—

“Yeah,” he says.

Commie comes over. Nazi grinds his teeth. _Useless_. What is he even doing? He isn’t going to do it now. His hands don’t shake, and his aim would still be steady—but Commie is too close, and he’s no longer sure he could actually pull the trigger.

Fucking _Commie_.

The Slav pauses beside the couch. Sits close, but not too close. Clears his throat. “You should go see Fence Sitter.”

“...What?” Nazi holds his face back from scrunching up. What’s the Slav’s angle on this? _Fence Sitter?_ It’s not that he dislikes visiting that pathetic excuse of an ideology, it’s just that there isn’t ever really a _reason_ to visit him.

“I think it’d...uh, firm up your identity.”

Oh. Nazi almost laughs. Except it isn’t funny. The Slav isn’t exactly _subtle_. “ _Really_ , Commie?”

“да! Definitely! Very good idea, trust me.”

“...My identity isn’t so weak that it’ll be swayed by _Fence Sitter_.”

 _Honestly_. Fence Sitter is...unique, among the ideologies. He believes everything and nothing. He has most sides of all arguments, but doesn't _make up his fucking mind_. Among other ideologies, he’s a bit of a joke. Nazi likes to visit and make fun of him. For self-assured ideologies, Fence Sitter’s utter patheticness only serves to dig them deeper into their own beliefs.

For a weak minded, unsure, more questioning ideology, though...

Well.

Commie sighs. “That may be so, but you will take his arguments as less biased than mine, да? It is worth try. Being gay really isn’t bad. I mean it.”

“You’re literally culturally Marxist, I’m not taking your opinion for shit.”

“My point exactly.”

“You're a fucking idiot,” Nazi says, “your ideas are terrible. You’re literally telling me to go take advice from the most wishy-washy centrist fuck imaginable in hopes of pulling me into degeneracy.”

A beat.

“...Is that yes?”

Blood and Soil. The Body National. The Master Race. Tradition. Degeneracy. Some things are unacceptable. In conflict, one side will always rise superior, the other will bend, or it will break. If James Reichmanger cannot emerge superior then he must be cast aside like old skin. There is no other option. There is no third position.

Commie looks at him with one raised brow. Teasing, expecting, _hoping_.

Nazi grits his teeth, doesn’t say _no_ , and chucks his gun at the other’s forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm been feeling very stressed and on edge and dead recently. I wonder if it shows in my writing.
> 
> On another note, I hope this chapter was enjoyable! To me it felt too...technical, almost? if that makes sense? things are finally going uphill. Fence Sitter is indeed an OC, but I hope you guys won't mind. I promise he won't steal the show, so stick with me?  
> per usual constructive criticism is welcome and comments are very appreciated. <3


	9. Fence Sitter and Political Nihilist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nazi visits Fence Sitter, with a surprise appearance from your one-and-only Political Nihilist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no cw this chapter

Fence-Sitter can always be found in the Field of Fences. It's a centrist territory, and, true to its nature, it never changes more than trivially. The path there is always the same, it's always the _same_. Green fields, half-cloudy sky, clover and mint spreading across the green. A faint breeze tickles at his hair. He's never able to identify the direction it blows from.

The fence comes into view. It's a flat-topped fence with the most miserable excuse of a paint job the world has ever seen. As if the painter couldn't made up their mind and changed color every few minutes.

Like always, Fence Sitter is on the fence. His form shifts along the edges, blurs around the middle, features never staying quite defines, colors mixing and matching indecisively. Nazi feels annoyed just _looking_ at the ideology.

Nazi doesn't...dislike visiting Fence Sitter, exactly. It's just that usually when he goes to see Fence Sitter it's to make _fun_ of him, not ask for his _perspective_. He likes mocking Fence Sitter. He doesn't like relying on others. This is all Commie's fault.

Fence Sitter isn't looking at him. He's...staring at the clouds? Whatever. The ideology looks like he always does; messy haircut, disorganized fashion, wavering colors. 

Nazi sighs. Loudly.

Fence Sitter startles, whips around. "Oh!" The ideology's voice is many-toned, akin to a disorganized, badly-sung choir. "Hi! Didn't see you there! Ah—wait, that's...Nazi. Oh no! A Nazi! Are you here to monologue about being a wishy washy fuck again? I would be upset, but I haven't decided if I dislike you yet! I mean, you do have a point... Although I haven't decided if it's a _good_ point yet!"

Nazi full body twitches. This is what he _means_.

"Oh my dead-God, shut up."

"I would, but free speech is a good idea and I shouldn't let it be compromised! Probably? Hmm, I'm not actually sure about that...yet!"

Fence Sitter hmms thoughtfully. His...gray(?) eyes glint. Actually, now that he looks for it, a lot of Fence Sitter is shaded like ash today. A bit more nihilistic, then?

"What do you think, Nazi? I haven't decided if you're opinion is worth anything yet, but all sides are worth listening to!"

Nazi holds himself back from pinching his nose. "Free speech is a good idea, but not for you. Shut up. Today I actually...have a question. For you."

A beat.

The sun shines, lukewarm on his skin. Faint breeze makes little pink flowers dance in fickleness. Fence Sitter stares at him like he's gone insane. To be fair, he might've.

"It was Commie's idea," Nazi defends.

Another moment. Then Fence Sitter brightens up light the midday sun. "Wow! I can't decide if the fact that _you're_ taking advice from _Commie_ is the most terrifying thing in years, or if it's the first step toward communist ethnostate utopia! Either way, I'm happy you want my opinion! You know, if there's one thing I'm mostly probably sure of, it's that listening to all sides and evaluating their arguments being making any decisions is important!"

"You have literally never done anything important in your _life_ ," Nazi says, and he actually means it. No exaggeration.

"Hahaha!" Fence Sitter laughs. There's nothing funny. "I'll make up my mind soon, probably! You know, I'm actually feeling a little left leaning and nihilist lately! And by lately, I mean since a few hours ago. What was your question?"

This is a really bad idea. Nazi should leave, right now, and forget about the whole thing.

...Commie would be disappointed.

God fucking damn it.

"...Is homosexuality acceptable? Just—give me different arguments."

"Hmm," Fence Sitter says, and sounds actually kind of serious, for once. Apparently he takes expressing different viewpoints seriously. "Religious or secular arguments?"

Nazi looks at him dryly. "What do you think."

" _Alt-righty_ then!" Fence Sitter pauses, laughs at his own joke, then cringes. "Wow! That was bad! Although, maybe it was actually good? Never mind. Secular it is!"

"Just get on with it."

"I'm thinking!" Fence Sitting purses his lips. Tucks a few strands of loose hair out of his face. "Well! You'd know the fascist/Nazi perspective—tradition is important and gays get in the way of a master race...but really, not many secular systems find issue with it. Systems that include human rights categorize _love_ as a fundamental right—"

"Humans rights are sham," Nazi scoffs.

"That could definitely be argued!" Fence Sitter agrees. "Scientifically, there's no evidence homosexuality is a detriment in itself. It's no longer classed as a mental illness. Although there is the argument that families are important, and homosexuals don't make good parents together! Fine couples, maybe, but unable to provide the double gender needed to raise a child!"

" _Yes_ ," Nazi instantly agrees, "yes, that. Definitely."

"It _is_ very debatable, though! For example—"

"It is _not_."

Fence Sitter gasps like he's been shocked. His whole form flickers with something bright and offended. "Everything is debatable!"

"You're plain wrong!"

"That's—oh, hmm," the other ideology frowns. "If everything is debatable, then is everything being debatable debatable? Oh no! Another contradiction in my worldview! Good thing I don't actually have a worldview!"

Jesus fuck. Nazi thinks he might hate Fence Sitters almost as much as he hates libtards. This is for Commie, he reminds himself, just a bit more and he can get this whole thing behind him. "Just...go back to the subject."

"Right! So, there's also a homofascist perspective, which says—"

" _What?_ "

"I was just getting there!"

"No, I mean," he takes a breath, "there are _homofascists?_ "

"Yes! The identification of fascism and Nazism with homosexuality! Woke 4chan! I would say it's coherent, but I haven't decided if it is yet!"

"Wow," Nazi says. " _Schwul Heil_ —but unironically?" Gay Heil. He thought anyone who did that was _joking_.

"Unironically!"

Eugenics _and_ homosexuality? Traditional life—but with gays? Nazi is...not entirely sure how that would work. Well. Obviously. Because it's _incorrect_. Homosexuality is wrong because it's—

"Unironically?" An unfamiliar voice says, and Nazi startles, turns around instantly. That's—a black-gray ideology, wearing a pale ash t-shirt and carrying a colorful box of ice ice cream pops. _Political Nihilism_ , Nazi realizes, _a centrist_. "You two are talking about irony? Irony is cool."

"Uh," says Fence Sitter.

Nihilism settles himself onto the fence, looking perfectly relaxed at the situation. Or—not exactly _relaxed_ , just uncaring. He opens the box of ice cream pops. "Yo. Fence Sitter. I'm back—brought snacks."

"Thanks," says Fence Sitter, whole form glowing. "You know, I'm not decided on a lot of things, but I definitely feel glad you brought this!"

"Mm." Nihilism shrugs. His eyes are half lidded and his skull earrings glint bone-white beneath the perpetual sun. It's an oddly dangerous kind of look. Nihilism...he is a powerless ideology unprovoked, Nazi knows, but he is perhaps one of the strongest ideologies in _potential_. There are a lot of people that follow him, after all, perhaps more than both Nazi and Commie combined. "...You gonna keep staring at me? Pretty gay dude. Not that I care."

Nazi goes tense and looks away instantly. "You're very relaxed."

Nihilism snickers. "Chill it. It's a nice day. Not that I spend much time outside. Want an ice cream pop?" He digs into the box, holds out a wrapped pop expectantly.

Nazi twitches. Wonders what kind of poison is in the sweet. Wonders if Nihilism just genuinely does not care for his own survival. Doesn't take the pop, although he kind of wants to.

"...You _do_ realize we're currently at war, right?"

Political Nihilism rolls his eyes. "Obviously. I'm not _stupid_. I just don't care. Are you going to take a pop or not?"

Nazi does have a sweet tooth. But he also isn't an idiot. "...What kind of poison is in it?"

The other ideology sighs. "Ugh. You care about that shit?"

Wow. That easy? "Hah! You did poison it!"

A blinks. " _Ooh._ No I mean, it's got artificial flavors or whatever. Not organic. _I_ didn't poison it. Do you know how much effort that would be?"

"...Uhhuh," says Nazi, not entirely believing. "You're a kind of leftist ideology, right?"

"Kind of." Political Nihilism shrugs. "Not really. Well. Socially left leaning, sure. I guess. Whatever, really. Black lives matter? All lives matter? White lives matter? Who cares!"

...Nazi hates him already. "You're _center_. Don't you hate me?"

"Yeah sure," Nihilism says, biting into his own ice cream pop. "Just, you know, not enough to actually _do_ anything about it. Are you taking this ice cream?"

He...does like ice cream. And ice cream pops. It doesn't look bad. And the plastic packaging doesn't _look_ tampered with. (At this point, does he even care?) "...What kind is it?"

"Almond-based. Chocolate covered vanilla. Ah fuck, you don't care it's vegan, right?" Nihilism groans. " _Please_ don't start complaining. 4chan complaining is almost as bad as twitter complaining."

Nazi grimaces. "4chan is cool, twitter is just cancer."

"...Cringe."

"...Does it have soy?"

"I literally just said almond based."

A beat. Nihilism looks at him, one brow raised. It...isn't soy. And it might be the fact that there's so much other shit to be concerned about, or just the general non-caring air of Nihilism, but Nazi can't muster the will to raise a fuss.

" _Fine_."

The other ideology hums, sticks out a pop. Nazi takes it. Stares. Bites. It's...not that bad, actually. It's pretty good, actually. Not that he says so.

Political Nihilism looks at him with half-lidded eyes. Takes another bite of his own pop. A faint breeze tickles at Nazi's hair. Silence.

"...You gonna sit down?"

"No."

"Hm." Nihilism looks glances at Fence Sitter, who's still happily eating a pop. "What were you two talking about? You _were_ talking, right?"

Ah fuck. Nazi...really doesn't want this getting out.

"Why do you care?"

"Me? Care? I don't. I'm just curious. Selfish desire."

Nazi is silent.

"It was really weird," Fence Sitter says, "Nazi _never_ talks to me without being super rude! But apparently Commie told him to ask my opinion. Just sharing information! I can't decide good or bad, but I can definitely relay different perspectives!"

Nihilism blinks. "Oh, you're back to caring about being useful?"

"Well, kind of! Haha!" Fence Sitter sound like he's going to cry, or maybe laugh, but can't quite decide. "I want to be useful and contribute, but not really? I'm actually more apolitical/political nihilist but haven't decided if I actually want to divorce myself from politics! Haha!"

"Jeez that's miserable," Nihilism says. "What'd he ask you about?"

Oh no.

"Secular perspectives on homosexuality!"

"Huh," he says, then pauses. Looks at Nazi. Something must be showing on his face, because then Nihilism says: " _Oh_."

"Shut up and go die."

"Wow," Nihilism says, " _Commie?_ The auths are together?"

Nazi's whole face twitches. " _No_. That's degenerate."

" _Oh_ ," Nihilism says, again. "Wow. I can't believe you actually care about that. I genuinely can't imagine how miserable that must be. You should try not caring."

Nazi's popsicle stick breaks beneath his fingers. He grits his teeth. It's not that _easy_. This is the _exact_ kind of apathy that makes societies rot. "I'm not taking the advice of some centrist with less values than a _moderate_."

"I have values," Nihilism says, "I value a lot of things. Like not getting caught up in political bullshit. And just living my fucking life."

"Nice life your gonna be living when _they_ come destroying your culture and spreading degeneracy!"

"Oh noooo," Nihilism says, tone dry, " _degeneracy._ Gay people. How terrifying."

"I'm not _scared_ ," Nazi says, something harsh and defensive flaring up. "It's just _wrong_. It violates tradition. It goes against my nuclear family. It—"

Political Nihilism sighs. "Yes, Nazi, I know. I _grew up_ conservative. But guess what, I'm gay. You know how I rectified that?"

Nazi goes silent. Doesn't take a step back. Ideologies do not talk about their former lives; it figures that Nihilism wouldn't care for social code. "I really don't."

Nihilism snorts. "See? You care too much. It shouldn't bother you. I _stopped caring_. I stopped caring what anyone would think, I stopped caring for bad rules. I got a boyfriend. And you know what my family did? They also stopped caring. And you know what happened? We all got _so much_ happier."

He sneers. "I'm not going to _give up my moral code_ just to _—_ "

"Become happier?" Nihilism's tone is edge with something close to irritation. "You _want_ to be miserable for a bad moral code that the world rejected almost a century ago? For something that will never actually take prominence again? For a _losing battle_ that will kill you at the end? Stop _caring_."

It would be so easy, he thinks, to bash Nihilism's head right into the edge of that fence. Into one of the surrounding rocks. It would be messy, for sure, and Nazi prefers things _clean_ and _systemic_ , but it would be satisfying. The skull would cave in, exposing jagged white bone and rose-pink flesh.

Nazi grits his teeth. "Aren't you supposed to be nihilism? Why do you _care?_ "

A moment. Faint breeze. The scent of mint and midsummer bloom.

Nihilism closes his eyes, opens them. His colors darken, lighten, steady into something calm and unchanging. A sigh. "You're right. I shouldn't. But you know, it really fucking irritates me to see your type. You'd sacrifice all the limited time you have in _vain_ , for something that doesn't even make you _happy_."

"I—"

" _Does it make you happy?_ "

 _Yes_ , Nazi wants to say, but the words stick to his tongue like burdock. He isn't happy. That's the whole point. The process is hard, may at some points seem hopeless, but the result will be worthwhile. Someday, his efforts will bear fruit and Nazi will see society bloom into something traditional and agrarian.

Someday, Nazi will have a small house with a moderate farm. He'll work hard by day and have good food by night. His white wife will serve him dinner and he'll be _happy_. His superior children will laugh and joke and have their place in the world secured. He will raise them well, with a stern hand, and knowledge the accompany that firmness.

(Commie has no place in that.)

( _No place_.)

"Yes," he says.

"And Commie?"

Nazi imagines it despite himself. Commie and him. On a farm. With good children. ( _Adopted?_ )The Slav already cooks. And he...is not a woman, is not even _feminine_ , but he is caring. He is nurturing. He would not be bad with children. In that scenario, Nazi—

(Would be happy. Would be really fucking happy.)

"I can't have him."

Nihilism throws his head back and groans. "Oh my non-existent God. Why do I even bother?"

"You don't bother!" Fence Sitter, who's been happily licking at a second ice cream pop, chimes in.

"Yeah," Nihilism agrees, then eyes Nazi. Sighs. "Just—keep it in mind, I guess. Just live your fucking life. Caring isn't worth it. At least know you aren't going to be happy."

 _Worth it_ , Nazi thinks, _worth it. Of course it's worth it._ For him? Will it be worth it for him?

For _him?_

He'll be dead. He's decided this already, right? He'll be dead, and while his ideology will live on, he will never see utopia. No, he won't be fucking _happy_. Commie will be dead, and he will be dead, and there's nothing beyond that.

Nazi grits his teeth.

"...Want another pop?" Nihilism asks.

There's a certain atmosphere around ideologies. A passive sphere of influence. Usually, these bubbles don't affect ideologies of similar strength. They really only influence humans or minor ideologies. There is, however, the possibility that their influence is able to spread into the cracks of an unsure ideology's belief.

 _Just stop caring_.

(This temptation is all Nihilism's fault. This unsureness is all Fence Sitter's fault. Nazi isn't actually—)

"...Sure."

Nihilism doesn't bring it up again. Fence Sitter ponders pointlessly. Nazi silently seethes, watches the other ideologies' friendly bickering, and feels his resolve waver.

Beneath the perpetual sun, Nihilism is a little gorgeous. In the aesthetic way. In the way that Nazi doesn't-quite-want. His skull earrings glint bone-white. His whole form is relaxed and settled. _Not caring_.

...Not caring.

Commie doesn't care about this. Ancap doesn't care about this. Ancom...cares, to a lesser degree, and in the positive way. Conservative cares, but not nearly as much. Nihilism doesn't care about anything but getting on with one's life. Fence Sitter has more secular arguments for accepting homosexuality than not. Apparently _homofascists_ exist.

That's alright. Nazi is used to working alone towards his ideals. Always alone.

With Commie, he doesn't have to be alone. Authoritarian Unity.

Nazi bites down aggressively on his ice cream pop. Creamy and soft. Almond and vanilla. He leans against the fence. Squints at the sky. A perpetual sun. There is nothing anyone can do to change this. Like homosexuality.

The gun weighs heavy on his hip. Cure this or die; there's no third position.

 _Stop caring,_ Nihilism said. _Just live your_ _fucking_ _life_.

...Like this, chewing on misery, thinking of Commie, _caring_ is a hard stance to hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I simp almond based products so hard. 'Gotta love soy-based alternatives but I had this one almond-based strawberry ice cream the other week and it was fucking marvelous.
> 
> that aside! uhm. So that's fence sitter. please be gentle with him, its his first time in the spotlight. I hope he wasn't just an annoying space-eater. I tried to get across his personality and make him entertaining but it isn't my skillset at all. Political Nihilism is one of my favorites. I hope he seemed in character. This chapter in general was pretty fun to write, but I'm unsure if the product turned out alright. Almost feesls like not much happened? Boring? Idk. I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> Per usual, comments are very much appreciated! They bring me life, so don't hesitate :)


	10. I think they call this love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nazi comes home. They talk about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no cw outside the usual
> 
> Uhhh. Keep in mind the 'happy ending for the romance not the world' tag, this would be a terrible idea irl

When Nazi gets back it's somewhere around four thirty PM. Everyone is on the lawn. Ancap is lounging in a sun chair. Ancom is making wild gestures at Commie, who's shed the coat and is sporting a turtleneck. He's leaning on the handle of a shovel. (Was he gardening? Digging a grave?)

"Aaa, look who's arrived, Nazi!" Ancap waves at him.

Commie immediately twists around. "You're back! Ancap isn't working! And—"

"Oh _shut up_ ," Ancap groans, "if I have to hear you prattle on about statist nonsense for another five minutes I'll start charging you for disturbance fees."

Commie wrinkles his nose. "Disgusting. You're worse than Ancom. _Qui_ ," he looks at Nazi and points at Ancom, "thinks society can function like well oiled machine without rules or regulation! And doesn't even see obvious problem with drugs!"

"If they get hooked and ruin their life it's their own fault!" Ancap says. "Personal responsibility, you leftists! Personal responsibility!"

" _Maybe_ ," Ancom bites, "people don't _want_ to feed their whole life into a supposed _well oiled machine?_ Maybe drugs can actually be a _good_ thing? You auths—"

"This is utterly pointless," Nazi interrupts, tilts his head at Commie. "You're wasting time arguing with degenerates when it'd be much easier to just kill them after all this is done."

" _Statists_ ," Ancap says. "You know what the NAP doesn't allow? Killing people!"

"But qui has _intent_ right," Commie says, "I can make proper communist of quem yet. Probably. I think."

"I'm _already_ a proper communist!"

Commie grimaces. Glances at Nazi as if to say _you hear this shit?_ Nazi raises a brow back like _really, you're looking at me?_ But he's looking towards him, so...

"Oh yeah," Nazi says, involving himself, "definitely. And I'm a socialist."

Commie actually visibly cringes. "No." At the same time that Ancom says: "Are you trying to be _funny?_ "

"No no," he protests, "I'm being serious! I'm a socialist! Just, you know, not an _economic_ one. I'm a race socialist! It's OUR race! Collective, regulated race!"

Ancap makes a thoughtful noise. "Good point. Maybe you are socialist. Everyone but me is socialist."

Commie looks somewhere between physically pained and downright murderous. "That is _not_ socialism. Words have definitions. You can't just—just—just. That's not." He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Never mind. Nazi—you took my suggestion, da?"

Faint breeze. Ancom blinks at them. Ancap goes back to flipping through his phone.

"Yeah," Nazi says.

"Find conclusion?"

Nazi doesn't answer. Beneath the burnt after noon sun, Commie is made of blood and iron. He's sculpted with an eternal kind of beauty; born of revolution, weathered by revolt, scarred by history. He smells like pine and earth with a hint of blood. He holds himself straight and tall and burning.

 _Stop caring_ , Nihilism said. _Ju_ _st live your_ _fucking_ _life_.

Of them all, Political Nihilism is probably the most alluring ideology. It doesn't require much of anything. It just requires _not caring_. It isn't a rabbit hole. It isn't a hundred books of theory. It isn't hate. It isn't love. It's something so simple.

It's fucking simple.

Nazi looks at Commie, and _wants_.

Nazi looks at Commie and wishes he didn't want, doesn't _want_ to want, but wants anyway. 

"Maybe," he says, "I don't...I think so."

Commie's eyes glint with red stars. "So?"

"I met Nihilism there," Nazi says. "He was... Can we go inside?"

Ancap and Ancom are still here. Nazi is...uncomfortable with them here. Commie pauses, looks at him for a moment, his gestures soften. A curt nod. They go inside. Nazi wants to go back to his own room. He misses the order of it. He thinks of taking Commie's hand and pulling him there. Doesn't.

"My room."

Commie nods. They go up the stairs. Down the hall. Into Nazi's room. It's clean and orderly, and the familiarity envelops him like a warm blanket. His skin tingles. He settles onto the edge of his mattress. Commie hesitates for just a for just a moment before sitting next to him. _Close_.

The Slav clears his throat. "You stopped caring?"

Has he? Does he? He—

Apathy is a dangerous kind of thing. And when he left Fence Sitter and Nihilism, he told himself he wouldn't fall for it. Told himself Commie wasn't worth it. Told himself that this is okay, and will continue to be okay, and he's stronger than this. But right now, those principals, that half-formed resolve, that uncertain decision..

Right now, it feels floaty, unreachable, more of a haze of a thought than anything concrete or solid. It falls between his fingers like mist on the edges of a dream. It splinters beneath the weight of Commie's attention. 

Nazi thinks of Conservative, always looking down on him for his supposed 'path of hate.' Thinks of Ancom, who has always despised him deeply for his supposed 'close mindedness' and 'outdated ideas' and 'dangerous evil beliefs.' Thinks of Fence Sitter, who had for secular arguments for homosexuality than not. Thinks of Nihilism, who _didn't fucking care_ , who looked _happy_. 

And then Nazi looks at Commie, watching him patiently, tentative kind of expression, colors a steady kind of temper. His eyes glint sharp and ruby-edged. His lips are a dried-rose kind of color. 

The Slav's weight shifts on the mattress. "Nazi?" 

"...Yeah," Nazi says, and looks away quickly. He glances back, looks away, glances back. And what is he even _doing?_ There's nothing respectable about stealing glances. He clears his throat. Straightens up. Presses his nails into his palms. ( _Wants_ , wants and wants and _wants._ ) "I...maybe. Yeah. Yes."

Commie furrows his brows. "How?"

"I..." _want you so badly I can't stand it. I want you so badly I could die from it. I want you so badly, and I want you to have me. I think I'll be happy with you, I think you make me happy. And I think, I think—I think, now, that_ —"I stopped caring. Mostly. I think."

For a moment, he feels like the world will shatter. Like he'll wake up and this will all be fever dream. Like there will be a mob to lynch him for this. Like he's about to be lined against a wall and shot square through the skull. Like someone is about to stick an inverted pink triangle around his wrist and send him off. Like this is some kind of world tilting revelation.

It...isn't, really, though. That's the whole point, isn't it? This isn't significant. It doesn't _matter_.

Commie brightens up like the stars. He's _grinning_. "Stopped caring about identity?"

"Hah!" Nazi shakes his head. "No! Just unimportant identity. One issue."

Commie sighs lightly, "Well. Worth trying. I can make decent person of you yet."

He rolls his eyes. Digs his elbow into the other's side. "Already decent. I'm not the one tempting perfectly made Aryan men into homosexuality. Which—I suppose isn't that bad? Fuck that's weird. But still."

A beat.

Commie stares at him. It's all eerily silent. A thick blanket of nothing. The fan is not running. His PC is not on. Beneath them, the mattress shifts quietly.

"...I what?"

 _Oh_ , Nazi realizes. Oh. He—didn't know. Of course he didn't know. Nazi never told him. This attraction ( _love!_ a part of him cries, _love love love!_ ) has eaten his whole being, has seeped into his every pore, has consumed his waking thought, but Commie doesn't—didn't know that.

 _Oh_ , he thinks, again, and feels something cold and oily churn in his stomach. He _didn't know_.

Nazi looks away, stares at the wall. Holds himself stiff and straight. Does not lean into Commie. What to do? Lie, don't lie—twist the truth? How? Deflect? "Just a joke. I was joking."

"...Nazi."

"It was a _joke_." Nazi says, and for some inexplicable reason, he thinks he might cry. "Seriously, can you liberals not take a joke?"

"I'm not liberal."

"Whatever."

"That wasn't..." Commie's voice is quiet and uncharacteristically uncertain. "Was that joke? Really?"

No, of course it wasn't. Fucking hell. He hates this. He wants to burn this whole interaction alive and sweep the ashes out of Commie's memories. And yet, somehow, he can't _stand_ the idea of letting this sit forgotten. Never bringing it up again. It—

" _No!_ " Nazi says, almost against his will. He glares at the wall. "Are you retarded? Of course it wasn't."

" _Oh_ ," says Commie.

A beat. One, two, three. Silence.

God fucking _damn_ it. Is this rejection? Of course it is. Just because Commie _could_ like him doesn't mean he _does_. This kind of feeling—it isn't unfamiliar. Nazi has been rejected plenty, just not _romantically_. This iteration of him never fell in love. Of course Commie would have terrible taste. He's a _leftist_.

Terrible taste!

Nazi swallows past the lump in his throat. "It's—never mind. It doesn't matter. You like other people better. I shouldn't even—you're not my volk. You hate me. I get that."

"God," the Slav says. "You think—"

"I get it." Nazi doesn't want to hear softened blows right now. Commie is too softhearted. (Then again, to him, who isn't?) Nazi doesn't want to have his petty _feelings_ cradled.

"No we're..." Commie makes a small, breathy sound. Like a half laugh. "We're both idiots. Look at me."

Nazi doesn't want to look at him. He does anyway.

Commie's colors are shifting, uncertain and unsteady, but not quite wavering. There's something unbearably tender in his expression, and the utter _softness_ of it simultaneously itches on Nazi's skin and sets his whole chest aflame.

"...We?" he asks.

"Well it's both of us, да?" Commie huffs in humor. "Liking fascist is pretty idiotic."

 _Oh_ , Nazi thinks. _Oh oh oh_. So he wasn't wrong, after all. Not exactly. There _has_ been something there. But, just to make sure— " _Like like?_ " He wants to say _love_ but that feels—dirty. Unspeakable. It's akin to the feeling he got when speaking his first slur. 

"да," says Commie. "Love."

" _Oh_."

 _It's requited_ , Nazi thinks, heart jumping right up into his throat, stomach all fluttery, thoughts buzzing. It's like he's a child again, getting excited over candy. Repeating words in his head like a mantra. _It's requited! Requited! Requited! Requited!_

Bend or break, bend or break—Nazi's will verses Commie's temptation. How stupid is that? How stupid have they been? They aren't against each other on this. They should've never been. 

A beat. Commie leans back against the blankets. The mattress shifts.

"If you're going to lie down, take off your boots," Nazi says, because sleeping spaces should be kept _absolutely_ sanitary.

Commie hums, eyes glinting teasingly. "So I'm allowed in your bed now?"

A warm burn spreads across his face. _No_ , he almost says, but—he doesn't want that. "Special occasions. Quiet down. This is bad free speech."

A quiet snicker. The boots are kicked onto the floor. Commie leans back against the pillows. A pause. The humor mostly fades from his expression. "So," he says, "now we...?"

"I don't know," Nazi says. _Getting together_. Authoritarian unity. Seeing each other. What do male couples even do? "Do you want to...?"

"да," Commie says, and Nazi feels his chest bubble with something light and unfamiliar. "I think so. We can be unstoppable."

"Yeah." Nazi smiles hesitantly, smooths down his shirt. This buzzing in his limbs doesn't even make sense. "At least—we'll give each other's regimes space, this time. Real non aggression. No betrayal."

Commie is silent for a moment. "...Perhaps," he says, "at least, until we're both settled. After that, I don't think you can expect that my people stand back and let your atrocities continue. Maybe I'll have made you decent by then?"

Nazi scoffs. "Already decent. And, you know, I don't...necessitate a genocide. Not that I committed genocide."

The Slav raises a brow. "Nazi, you don't have to lie right now."

"Hey! I'm not—" _oh_ , Nazi thinks, he doesn't have to lie here. They've just agreed on unity. Commie isn't—isn't about to abandon him. "Well, okay, maybe I did a _bit_ of a genocide. But I didn't _have_ to. The goal is just remove undesirables, not necessarily kill them. Usually. It just, you know, usually turns _into_ killing them."

"...Uhhuh," says Commie.

"So, you know, if you _took_ all the things I don't want then I wouldn't have to kill them."

"You don't have to remove people in first place," Commie says, pauses, purses his lips. "But...fine. Sure. I won't turn anyone away."

 _God_ , Nazi thinks, _I love you_. And is so overwhelmed with the unfamiliarity of it that he's unable to even be properly regretful about handing away his intent to properly cleanse undesirables. "We're going to be perfect."

"да," Commie says, soft kind of smile.

"We could live together," Nazi says, thinks of a small farm, in a nice place, with good food and _Commie_. "We should live together. Someday. You know my ideal? Soil?"

"Agrarianism," Commie says, "very inefficient. Cities don't have to be terrible."

Nazi rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Just—think about it. You, me. A small farm where we could grow our own living. Where we could pick berries and harvest crops. We could have picnics all the time. We could raise good children. We could _live_. Do you...hate it that much?"

"I like post-scarcity green metropolis better," Commie says. "I dream differently. But maybe...sometime in future. I try your ideal living and you mine."

"That sounds good," Nazi says, and his heart soars. That could _happen_. It isn't an entirely impossible dream. Far off, yes, but not impossible. "Thanks."

The other ideology's eyes glint. He pats the space of bed beside him. "That's later. Now is now. Come closer?"

Nazi hesitates, just for a moment. Nods. Take off his shoes and climbs over. Commie turns onto his side, spreads out his arms. Nazi hesitates, again. An embrace. A hug. _Cuddling_. The very concept of that kind of _softness_ disgusts him.

...He also wants it. Commie's arms are wide and open, and he _wants_. ( _Stop caring. Just live your fucking life_.)

Nazi tentatively lies down in position. Head on Commie's arm, face in the other man's chest. Commie is _large_ , and dwarfs Nazi's smaller frame easily. A band of heat wraps around Nazi's back. The whole experience is akin to being put into fresh-from-the-dryer clothes. It's comfortable. _Embarrassing_.

The other man sighs softly. "I wanted this for while."

 _I have, too_. "It's a privilege. Not a word of this spoken outside this room."

"Of course of course," Commie says, runs his fingers through Nazi's hair. He can't help but lean into the touch. "So...I can call you now? Cолнышко?"

"I don't know what that means," Nazi says. The feeling in his chest burgeons anyway.

"Little sun," Commie says. "Mine. My _c_ _олнышко_. Can I?"

 _Little sun_. Nazi doesn't dislike that. He should, but he doesn't, not really. He should also hate being called someone's; he owns people, people do not own him. But—it's Commie. He can't dislike it. _Mine_.

"Whatever," Nazi mutters, quietly, "just not in public. And don't expect me to call you something back."

"That's fine," Commie says, "you don't need to. We'll be unified regardless, cолнышко."

How utterly _embarrassing_. Nazi really loves Commie's voice. The deep baritone. The accent. He loves him. Heat unrelated to Commie crawls over Nazi's face, right up to his ears. He buries himself a bit deeper into the other man's chest.

(Nazi blushes easily. He loves his fair skin, really, but it blushes _much_ too easily.)

Commie chuckles quietly. Tilts Nazi's head up. "I like everything in red, but you especially."

Nazi flushes even harder. Stuffs his face back out of sight. "...You're embarrassing."

Commie hums. The sound rolls through his chest. It's nice.

There is...a lot about this to be figured out. They've done this before. Not—not the _getting together_ thing, but the alliance. It didn't work. It didn't have to not work. They can figure this out.

They can figure this out. Someday, maybe, they'll live together in a farm and the world will be perfect. Someday. After the centricide. After eliminating liberals. After resorting the world. After achieving perfection.

Now, though, here in this spot, Commie is warm and solid around him. His heart is loud through the fabric of his sweater and beats steadily. He smells like earth and iron, with a hint of pine. His hands are gentle. And, somehow, this is the closest to utopia Nazi has ever quite felt.

 _Love_ , Nazi thinks, _is a very strange kind of feeling_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh I know this chapter took a bit long to come out and I apologize for that. I kept tinkering. I wanted to get this chapter right. like seriously, this shit took me way longer than it should've. I hope it paid off? Idk, I hope everything didn't feel too sudden or unearned, which is my main concern for this. I hope it also felt like good pay-off and not anticlimactic.
> 
> well. yeah in general, I hope you enjoyed. per usual, constructive criticism is welcome if you have any. Otherwise, I super appreciate comments so don't be shy <3


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